A Bouquet Of Magnolias
by Francesca Monterone
Summary: - "Loving Arthur is like tending to a garden of thorns, and there is hardly ever a rose among them." -
1. Prelude

As always, I don't own anything but my own imagination. Reviews are ALWAYS appreciated

* * *

**A Bouquet of Magnolias**

* * *

_- Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us –_

_(Oscar Wilde)_

**

* * *

**

It was Venice, Venice on a rainy day near the end of November, about five o'clock in the afternoon and the city painted in varying shades of black, white and gray; a dab of color here and there, a faint glitter of gold.

The dream image was a perfect replica of the real city, scrupulously reproduced in sumptuous detail, every angle right, every cobblestone of the Piazza San Marco in place.

Trust Arthur to be precise…

And yet there was something else to this city, something beyond the cold precision of the diligent copyist, a foreign, yet haunting concept, a mere idea, feeling…

The magnificent domes of San Marco and the other churches curved voluptuously against the darkening sky, the high towers stood watch over the quiet dark waters of the lagoon, lapping against the foundations of Venice; but there was an underlying sadness permeating the shady beauty of the scenery, like a soft melody, a melancholy lullaby.

And Eames knew that this was an element Arthur had added unconsciously, unwillingly. They were talking memories here, memories and emotions, not the usual picture-perfect, expertly constructed dreams they moved in when working with Arthur.

Maybe Eames should have been worried, since he knew how memories could mess with a dream, and he'd seen Cobb and Mal… And yet, the only thing he felt was the thrill of curiosity. He knew that the point man possessed a brilliant mind, but Arthur had always been careful not to let anyone see beyond the surface of shining, clean, orderly efficiency and reliability. This was a whole new dimension, a rare and maybe unique insight and Eames wasn't about to let the opportunity pass.

He followed Arthur through the intricate maze of small streets, bridges and channels until they reached a small Piazetta close to the water in one of the less fashionable parts of Arthur's dream-built city that was so much like Venice and yet not the Venice Eames knew. A fountain tinkled into a stone basin in the middle of the Piazetta. Next to it stood a slender young woman in a dark blue, tailor-cut coat that flowed gracefully down to her calves. She held a black, bell-shaped umbrella and all around her, silvery sheets of rain poured down like a flood of tears. She was tall and beautiful, a large pale flower decorating her dark hair and her large eyes never left Arthur's face.

"Lucia," Eames heard Arthur say in a strangely soft and melancholy voice.

The young woman smiled, but the smile was not a happy one. "Arthur."

Eames wondered why she looked so familiar. She was Arthur's memory of a real person, obviously, but he couldn't have seen her anywhere, could he?

"Why did you come?" Lucia asked, her hand flying up to touch the flower in her hair.

Both she and Arthur seemed to feel vaguely uncomfortable about this meeting.

Arthur shifted a little, as if unsure what to respond. "I missed you," he said softly.

Eames still wasn't sure whether this was a real memory or whether Arthur was just constructing the dream with bits and pieces his unconsciousness supplied.

"You shouldn't have come. It will only make it more difficult to leave again."

"I can't do this, Lucia. I can't… I can't live pretending that you don't exist, pretending that _they_ don't exist…"

"You chose this life, remember? And I chose mine. We can't go back, neither of us. You knew what you were doing when you left, didn't you?"

"I did," Arthur replied unhappily, "but sometimes I regret my decision."

Lucia's face softened, and a drop of water rolling off her cheek looked like a tear. "So do I."

Behind her, the stone basin of the fountain cracked, water spilling over the cobblestones of the Piazetta, bathing their feet, and the walls started to crumble as the dream collapsed…


	2. Family Secrets

The vast hotel suite was quiet but for the soft rustling of papers and the persistent scribbling of Arthur's pencil. The point man sat at a low couch table near the large windows offering a magnificent view of the city (Eames was quite sure that Arthur hadn't even risked a glance out of these windows), drawing and jotting down notes and cross-references.

Ariadne was settled comfortably in an armchair at the other side of the room, idly flipping through a stack of illustrated books on architecture for inspiration.

Eames stretched and yawned. He was bored, and having to sit here waiting for Cobb and Yusuf to return wasn't making things any better.

He contemplated strolling over to Arthur's workplace for a round of friendly banter and teasing, but somehow he doubted that Arthur would have appreciated it much right now and getting stabbed with a pencil would definitely have ruined the rest of the day, so screw that idea.

He decided to focus on Ariadne instead. She didn't look _too_ busy.

"Bauhaus, hon? Please tell me you won't." Eames pulled a face, pointing at the large picture she was studying.

Ariadne looked up, smiling at him. "I think it's interesting."

"Do you? Well _I_ think it's god-ugly. Why not go for something a little more elaborate? Have you tried gothic yet?"

Ariadne frowned. "Gothic's terrible. All those spikes and gargoyles and details to keep in mind. I prefer simple elegance."

"Huh." Eames shrugged. "What's Arthur up to over there?"

Ariadne looked at the point man, who was still bent low over the table. "He's working out the details of our latest plan. Unlike me, Arthur likes details."

"No! Whatever gave you that idea?" Eames replied mockingly and loud enough for Arthur to overhear. "Arthur likes details? Sweetie, that's like saying that fish like water. Arthur _delights_ in details. He'd never leave his work-desk without making sure that all his papers are stacked neatly and aligned parallel to the edges."

Arthur didn't look up or say anything in reaction to this statement, but Eames was quite sure that he saw the point man's shoulders tense.

Well, good.

Ariadne sighed. "Eames," she said quietly, making sure that Arthur _wouldn't_ hear.

"Yes, hon?"

"I was just wondering… are you planning to ever go ahead and tell Arthur that when you call him _'love' _you actually mean it?"

For a moment, the forger was too stunned to reply, and when he finally found the words, his answer came out with a little more honesty than he'd intended. "He'd probably shoot me before I got a chance to finish the sentence."

Again, Ariadne's gaze trailed over to Arthur, before returning to Eames' face. She shook her head. "I don't think so. Don't you think he feels lonely sometimes, being… well, being _Arthur_? He's all business, everything about him is orderly, efficient, professional… I believe he needs someone who tells him that it's okay to relax from time to time."

"I do that. Constantly." Eames remarked.

"Yeah, well, maybe you're not persuasive enough… think about it."

"Uh-huh."

* * *

Ariadne's comment was on Eames' mind all day, distracting him from work to the point where Cobb got tired of accidentally being shot or crushed by a collapsing building or watching the forger turn into a two-headed something instead of the petite blonde he'd intended to become.

"Damn it Eames! I can't work like this!" He barked, thoroughly annoyed by now. "There's obviously something troubling you and whatever it is, you had better get it out of your system _prontito_, because we've got only two days left to prepare for this job, and I'm not going to blow it off because of you."

Arthur looked up from the miniature landscape he and Ariadne were constructing in order to visualize their plan, and raised his eyebrows at them.

"Anything I can help you with?" He asked smoothly and Eames thought, _well, yeah, quite a few things actually, pet, 'cause really, this is your fault… but then, 'Get over here and kiss me' probably wouldn't be to your liking._

As he was staring at Arthur, beautiful, immaculate, untouchable Arthur, Eames felt frustration rising in his chest. He wondered what Cobb would say if he was told that the distraction impeding his forger's ability to function was actually the thoroughly innocent-looking point man.

Ariadne knew, though.

He risked a glance at her, almost expecting to be met with a smug, somewhat taunting gaze, but she wasn't even looking at him. Maybe he was starting to imagine things. Spending too much time in your daydreams would do that to you.

_Don't think about elephants…_

_Yeah, right._

Cobb sighed. "Let's call it a night, shall we…? Maybe things will go better for us in the morning."

It didn't sound as if he really believed it.

* * *

When Eames returned to the suite, it was cast in semi-darkness and silence. Ariadne and Cobb had gone to have dinner and apparently, they were still out. Everybody else appeared to be sleeping.

Eames contemplated going to bed, but he wasn't all that tired yet, and there was a lot on his mind. Instead, he stepped to the large window to take a look at the city below. Millions of bright lights were gleaming between the dark, looming shadows of skyscrapers and large office buildings; diamond pinpricks on the great, midnight-blue cape of the night. The sight was breathtaking, but even more so was the thought that down there and all around, millions of people were living their lives, dreaming their dreams.

"Beautiful, isn't it…?" Someone whispered behind him. Someone who had sat in the dark, motionless and silent, not wanting to be noticed, or maybe lost in a dream of his own.

Eames spun around so fast he almost stumbled.

"Arthur," he breathed, trying to hide his surprise.

The point man acknowledged it with a wry smile as he rose in one fluid movement. For a man who didn't believe in regular exercise, Arthur had always been amazingly flexible.

As Eames took in the slender, upright form in front of him, he felt the familiar longing burn in his chest.

_Damn you, Arthur, you have no idea what you're doing to me and why…_

"Funny, hearing those words from you. I would not have taken you for the sort of guy who appreciates a skyline like this. Aren't you more into old cities? Say, a city with many bridges and lots of impressive buildings laden with marble and gold…? A city like Venice, maybe?"

Even in the dim light, Arthur's answering frown was hard to miss.

"You were never supposed to be in that dream," he reminded Eames.

"Ah, but the damage is done now, pet. And so far, you still haven't told me the story of the girl with the flower in her hair…" Eames moved a little closer to Arthur, who instantly and instinctively backed off a step.

_Typical. Why the hell are you so tense, love? Is it just me, or are you scare of anybody getting to close to you and discovering your secrets? _

"Magnolia," Arthur said. His voice sounded dreamy.

"I beg your pardon…?"

"The flower. In her hair. It's from a magnolia tree. She always wears them, she loves those flowers. There's always a vase on her desk, and then she'll pick one of them and braid it into her hair… at least she used to do that… maybe she has given it up by now…"

Eames studied his face, his large eyes focused on a point in the distance, or maybe in the past.

"Who is she?" He asked, even though he feared the answer. "Did you love her?"

Arthur was silent for a long moment, maybe lost in his memories. Then, so softly that Eames had to strain to even catch the words, he replied: "Yes… yes I did. Lucia is my sister."

Eames stared at him in quiet astonishment, but then suddenly, it all seemed to make perfect sense. The woman had looked familiar to him in the dream. Well of course she had – she was a female, maybe slightly younger version of Arthur. He realized that he barely knew anything about the point man's past or his family. Cobb hadn't mentioned anything, either. Maybe Arthur had kept them all in the dark?

"Your sister…?" He echoed.

Arthur shrugged. "By blood, at the very least."

"Arthur is not an Italian name," Eames stated, remembering the dreamscape of Venice.

Arthur turned to look at him. "My maternal grandmother is Italian. Lucia was originally named Lucy, but she changed her name when she went to live with her. Grandma Maria greatly appreciated that, or so I'm told." There was a cold bitterness in his voice that made Eames' heart ache for his sake.

"I take it, there are some unresolved issues regarding your family…?" He asked, very careful in his choice of words. He did not want to turn Arthur away. This was a unique chance to gain a deeper insight on the point man's past and feelings, and he waited for it long enough.

"Oh no, from my parent's point of view, they are perfectly resolved, I can assure you of that," Arthur replied with barely concealed hostility in his voice. "After all, they made sure that none of their children would _embarrass _them anymore. They fed us, clothed us, raised us, and made sure we got an excellent education, but as soon as we started to think for ourselves, to develop our own opinions and plans and ideas, the arguments began. And they never stopped. I am told, it got a little better after I had left, since they were able to fully concentrate on Lucia, trying to shape her into an ideal daughter, but when she, too, started to spread her wings, they tried to cage her and she would not let them. She fled their house, but she has not severed all ties with them. They don't appreciate her way of life, but they do still talk to her. She is the lesser of two great evils, or so it seems."

"Your parents don't appreciate your choice in career, I take it…?" Eames asked. Not that that surprised him very much. If Arthur's parents were anything like he imagined them to be, they had to be a set of stuffy, boring, and maybe slightly xenophobic people who did not appreciate anything that interfered with their nice, clean, orderly world.

"My parents don't appreciate my life," Arthur stated with a derisive laugh, "It's not just dream-sharing they frown upon. It's everything I am."

"Why?" Eames asked. "No offense, but you strike me as pretty much the perfect son. You don't drink, you don't gamble, you rarely get into fights, and if you do, it's usually justified. You're a diligent worker and as far as I can see, don't have any antisocial or eccentric habits. What the hell is their problem?"

"I never did what they expected me to do. Lead a lawful, sedentary life. Build a home. Raise a family."

"How old are you again, Arthur? Twenty-nine? Thirty? There's still plenty of time for that, if you really intend on being a husband and Daddy."

Arthur shook his head. "You don't understand."

"You could try to explain it," Eames suggested.

"I don't know why I'm even telling you any of this."

"Maybe because I'm the only one around, and you needed someone to talk to.

"Maybe."

"Huh. So… your sister – what did she do wrong?"

"She became an actress."

"And that's wrong how…?"

"In my parent's eyes, the life she leads is frivolous and sordid. You know, always in public, with a lot of rumors about her, changing lovers as she changes sets… but then, it's her life, and she's fought hard for it."

"As have you," Eames said quietly, locking gazes with him. It was a guess, but an accurate one.

Arthur nodded. "I'm just wondering whether it was worth it or not."

"You're free."

"Am I?"

"It's okay to miss your family, love. We all do, sometimes. Besides, I'm sure _they_ miss you, too."

Arthur looked at him, eyes blurry. "Did you not listen to what I just told you? Maybe Lucia misses me, sometimes, and who knows; maybe Grandma Maria does, too, in her own way, but my parents? They _hate_ me."

Eames shook his head, fighting the sudden urge to hug Arthur and to cradle him to his chest, whispering soft words and endearments.

No. He couldn't possibly. The point man wasn't ready for that just yet, no matter how great his need for comfort might be.

"You won't tell me what the real problem is, will you? The thing that drove you away from your parents and has been poisoning your life ever since?"

"It's none of your business."

"I'd like to think of myself as your friend, Arthur."

"Then don't ask me about it."

* * *

_Since several people asked for it, I decided to continue this story. It might take me a while to finish it, but I hope you'll stay with me all the way and enjoy reading it._


	3. Prior Engagements

"Cobb."

Dom looked up, just to find that Eames had planted himself in front of him, his arms crossed and with an expression on his face that said that he was up to something. Something Dom _probably_ wouldn't like. It was a little too serious, a little too determined.

"What's the matter with Arthur?" The forger asked.

Dom frowned. "Arthur…?" He looked around, but there was no trace of the point man anywhere near them. Which wasn't all that surprising, considering that he had left, in order to do what he did best – gathering information.

"I wasn't aware there was anything wrong with him, Eames."

_In fact, it's you who constantly interrupted our work yesterday, and I'm starting to get a little worried about that. I can't afford you losing grip on your illusion in the middle of a job._

"Well, there is." Eames stated stubbornly. "And he won't talk to me."

"Considering that you usually turn everything he says either against him or into a joke, that doesn't exactly surprise me," Dom said dryly. He was surprised to see an almost hurt expression appear on Eames' face. "What…? We all know that you love to provoke Arthur. I'll even give it to you that it's sort of funny to watch the two of you bicker, and as long as Arthur doesn't mind, I'm okay with it. And believe me, he'd let you know if he ever got too tired of your jokes."

"Probably by holding a loaded gun to my temple," Eames added.

"Nah, Arthur's usually a little more subtle than that." Dom studied the forger's face, still puzzled at this entire conversation. "What's going on, Eames…? Why this sudden concern for Arthur? Did he say anything?"

"It's more what he _didn't _say. What do you know of his family?"

_Ah._ Dom raised his brows. "He told you about them?" _Surprise, surprise…_ Usually, Arthur didn't volunteer personal information, and much less to someone like Eames.

"Um… I sort of… found out."

"I see. And then you asked him."

"He told me about his sister. "

"He mentioned Lucia?" Dom was baffled. He'd only found out about Arthur's sister by accident and it had been years before Arthur had finally come out with the whole story. It wasn't until after Mal's death that Arthur had told him what had driven him away from his parents, and how much he missed Lucia.

Eames nodded. "So you do know. Arthur won't tell me what really happened and why his parents won't see him or talk to him anymore. Can you?"

Dom winced. "Look, Eames… it's Arthur's story to tell. And if he doesn't want you to know… well I'm sure he's got his reasons. Don't take it personally; it's just that he rarely tells anyone."

"But it's killing him, Cobb. He's suffering, silently, but constantly, and we can't just stand by and watch him destroy himself, can we?" There was something new in Eames' blue eyes, a sentiment Dom had never seen there before… or maybe, he just hadn't noticed it until now.

"You're really concerned about Arthur," he said, astonished at the idea.

"Well yeah. We're friends, after all."

Strange as this sounded, Dom supposed it was true. They had all been working together for a while now, and the Inception job had brought them closer together. It might be an odd attachment that had formed between Arthur and Eames, considering that they were almost polar opposites; but then, so was the close companionship between Eames and Ariadne. Extraordinary events created extraordinary friendships.

"Now, about his family…"

Dom slowly shook his head. "I'm sorry, Eames. But when he told me, I promised Arthur to keep it to myself. It's… well, it's a tragic story, but I don't see why he's so secretive about it. But it's his choice, and I respect that. He'll tell you when he's ready. If he ever is."

He kept his real thoughts on the matter to himself; thoughts that probably wouldn't have been to Eames' liking. In Dom's opinion, the forger was the very last person in the world Arthur would ever tell his story. And not for lack of trust… it wasn't even that Arthur was afraid of Eames mocking him, using the knowledge against him.

No, Dom was fairly sure that by now, his friend knew Eames well enough to know that with all his teasing and joking, there were some lines he did not cross. The truth, as Dom perceived it was that the point man was scared. Scared of Eames' reaction; scared that his secret might destroy the tentative bond of trust and friendship they had formed. And Arthur knew from personal bad experience how easily that could happen.

And even if Eames' were to react positively to the revelation… well, maybe Arthur feared that even more. In any case, he desperately wanted to preserve the status quo. Dom didn't know whether or not it was the right thing to do, but it was Arthur's decision after all.

"I'm afraid you'll have to wait, or find out for yourself," he told the forger.

Eames didn't look too happy at this prospect. "Oh, trust me, I will. But I'm starting to wonder what the hell went wrong, since both Arthur and you are so determined to keep it a secret. Did he kill someone?"

"Well… if you consider suppressing part of one's personality for years murder, then yes, he did," Dom murmured. "And that's all I say, Eames. "

* * *

Eames was not at all pleased with Cobb's evasive answers to his questions. He had been hoping to find the truth, and instead come up against a bank of fog, made up of half-explained theories and mysterious hints. Eames felt that nothing Cobb had told him would bring him any nearer to deciphering the great riddle named Arthur; especially since doing research was clearly Arthur's specialty. Eames was good at lying, cheating, stealing and pretending to be someone else. Arthur was good at solving riddles and gathering information.

This time, though, Eames would have to venture into the elusive point man's own territory.

He had very little to work with; just a name, in fact, and one that had been changed, too. _Lucia. _Maybe she and Arthur shared a family name, but even if they did, it wouldn't have helped him, since he did not know Arthur's last name.

He also knew that Arthur and his sister were Americans with Italian relatives and a grandmother named Maria. Well, great. There were millions of Americans who shared the first with them, and as for the second – well, about half of the female population of Italy was named Maria, or so it seemed.

But then, how many Italo-American actresses named Lucia, could there be? And if he managed to find a picture of her, he would recognize her. Eames rarely forgot a face, and especially not one as pretty as Lucia's.

He decided to enlist Ariadne's help in his search for Arthur's lost sister.

"An actress? Since when are you interested in Hollywood movies?" Ariadne asked in surprise.

"Everybody likes movies," Eames stated matter-of-factly. "Besides, it's not Hollywood. More like Italian cinema."

"You speak Italian?"

"No, but there _is_ such a thing as synchronization, Ariadne, dear," Eames deadpanned. "Now, I know that _you_ do. Of course, you have an unfair advantage, being French. You probably understand Spanish and Portuguese, too, without too much trouble."

"True," Ariadne admitted. "But it still took me some serious studying to become fluent enough in Italian to carry on a conversation. So what's this movie you're looking for?"

"Honestly; I have no idea what it was named. I watched it a few months ago, while I was staying in Rome. With English subtitles, mind you. It wasn't all that interesting, actually, but one of the actresses sort of caught my eye. It's a pity I can't remember her last name. Her first name is Lucia."

"That's a fairly common name," Ariadne mused, "hm… apart from Lucia di Lammermoor, who is clearly not an actress, but a character from an opera of Donizetti; I can only think of one other Lucia associated with acting. Lucia Bianchi. I don't think she'd be your type, though. She's dark-haired."

Eames rolled his eyes at her teasing. "Really, Ariadne, make up your mind. First you accuse me of having a thing for Arthur, then you tell me that I'm not into dark-haired people?"

"I didn't say that. I just happen to know that you prefer blond women – at least you always impersonate blondes when you try to distract a mark. Arthur's a man, though."

"Yes, I sort of noticed that myself, thank you." Eames shook his head. "You wanna know why I always impersonate buxom blue-eyed blondes? Because that's what most men like to see, and besides, they seem harmless. There's that old cliché again." He paused, before adding. "So… Lucia Bianchi…?"

Ariadne nodded. "She's fairly young, and hasn't played in too many movies yet. But they say she's a rising star, and I think she's pretty good. She usually plays the lead role in sad love stories. I've never seen her in a comedy."

That sort of matched the picture Eames had of Lucia, wearing a dark coat and standing in the rain next to a Venetian fountain. Yes, he could imagine her being a tragic heroine. A melancholy role would probably suit her better than anything else.

"Why the sudden interest in Italian actresses, though?" Ariadne asked, sounding faintly suspicious.

Eames flashed her his biggest cheesy smile. "You know, I thought I might ask her out for dinner one of these days. She _is_ kind of pretty, isn't she?"

Ariadne shook her head at him. "In your dreams, Eames. In your dreams."

* * *

They finished the job the next day without running into any major problems; and Eames could see the relief in Cobb's eyes, when all of the dreamers came back save and sound.

"Good job," he told Ariadne, who smiled radiantly.

"I still don't like the new look," Eames complained. "Can we have something less ugly next time? Please?"

Ariadne laughed. "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, Eames."

"Uh-huh. I must have gone blind, then." He turned to look at Arthur, who was brushing minute wrinkles out of his shirt. "Stop fussing, love. You look wonderfully boring. As always."

Arthur, not surprisingly, ignored him.

"I see you in ten days then…? Philadelphia…?" Cobb asked. He was over by the desk, gathering his things.

"Right. You have a plane to catch," Eames remembered, "tell James and Philippa I said hi."

Cobb smiled. "I will."

"I won't be there," Arthur said quietly, and everybody in the room turned to look at him.

"Huh?" Cobb looked at him, obviously confused. "Why not…? I thought we were all set for the next job…?"

The point man gave a slight shrug. "Prior engagements."

"Yeah, sure."

"Damn it, Dom, I _do _have a life, and I'd like to remind you that I'm not a minion at your beck and call."

Eames raised his brows at this sudden eruption. It was so _un_-Arthur. He studied the point man's face, trying to read some sort of explanation there, but found none. Arthur did look more annoyed than angry, but there was a haunted look in his eyes that Eames had never seen there before; and he didn't like it.

"Fine," Cobb replied, now audibly irritated and somewhat hurt. "Give me a call when you're done."

Arthur gave a curt nod, before turning around and leaving the room.

"Prior engagements…?" Eames asked, his brows raised.

Cobb sighed. "Don't ask me. I know that Arthur's working other jobs, but I don't know for whom. Or rather, I don't _want_ to know. It's not as if he'd tell me, anyway." There was resignation in his voice, and maybe a hint of bitterness. Arthur and Cobb had been friends for a long time, but apparently, there were a lot of aspects of Arthur's life that he didn't share, not even with his closest friends.

"You think it's dangerous?" Ariadne asked, sounding a little worried.

Cobb gave her a look that said _you seriously need to ask?_

"Dangerous, illegal, whatever. Most of the stuff we do is."

"That's why it's so much fun," Eames added.

"Yeah, well, I don't know if Arthur's work is still that much fun," Cobb said, and now he, too, looked worried.

Which in turn made Eames wonder what sort of jobs his favorite point man was doing when he wasn't working with them… add another riddle to the mysterious life of Arthur…


	4. Rendezvous

Eames rounded a corner and found himself standing in a narrow, semi-dark alley in one of Milan's oldest neighborhoods. There was barely enough space for two people to walk side by side, and he had a fleeting vision of some wild-looking Mafiosi waiting for him in the shadows of a doorway. It was fairly ridiculous, though. Eames had met his share of bad guys in his lifetime, but very few of them would have fit into the two-dimensional world of Hollywood movies.

Nonetheless, he moved carefully, following the slightly curving alley until he reached a nondescript wooden door bearing the number twelve. He rang the bell, and was somewhat surprised when about a minute later, the door was thrown open and a hulking Italian guy, with the physique of a bulldog and the thoroughly innocent face of Momma's good little boy – complete with large brown eyes, full lips and dimples –, appeared on the step.

Eames and the other stared at each other, both equally surprised.

"I'm here to see Signora Bianchi."

"Who are you?" The Italian asked suspiciously. His English was virtually flawless, which got Eames thinking that there was probably more to him than just muscles.

From inside the house, a woman's voice called something, and a moment later, a slender form appeared behind the guy on the doorstep, pushing past him to look at the unexpected visitor and ignoring his mumbled protests.

Lucia Bianchi was wearing a white summer dress and looked just like she had in Arthur's dream. There was even a large, white flower in her hair.

_Magnolia_, Eames remembered.

He reached out a hand, introducing himself. After a moment's hesitation, she took it, looking at him from Arthur's eyes, which was deeply disturbing.

"What brings you here, Mr. Eames?" She asked politely, but without warmth. "I don't believe I know you."

"I happen to know your brother. I would say I work with him, but that sounds like a white-collar thing, so it really wouldn't fit… maybe you could say that we are partners in crime…?"

Lucia drew in a sharp breath. She said something to the man that Eames didn't catch – mainly because it was spoken in rapid Italian – then beckoned him to step inside. She led him to a surprisingly light and spacious living area, the bodyguard (for Eames couldn't picture him as anything else) following on their heels.

Now why would a well-known, but not yet really famous Italian actress need a bodyguard? She didn't strike him as the high-strung, paranoid type, so there had to be a serious reason for it.

Lucia waved for him to sit down on a couch, before finally introducing Hulk junior. "This is Nico, my butler. Well, and bodyguard," she admitted, before leaning over, telling _Nico_ to get coffee for them. Eames watched him leave, noticing the wary glance he sent Lucia. He was gone only a moment, before returning with a tray, carrying two steaming cups of cappuccino and a plate of biscuits. He placed the tray on the low table between them, then retreated a few steps to stand behind Lucia's chair.

_This is getting a little ridiculous. Who does he think I am? The big, bad wolf?_

"So… how long have you known my brother?" Lucia leant back in her chair.

"A while. Couple of years."

She was looking at him intently, her dark eyes searching his face as if trying to find some hidden truth or revelation there. Eames found himself struggling to keep the mask in place. How she did it remained a mystery to him, but there was something about Lucia's sweet, melancholy, yet dead-serious face that made him want to tell her the truth, and tell her everything. She managed to look fragile and strong at the same time, and the mixture was fascinating.  
He did not want her to know, though. And much like her, Eames was a skilled actor, apt at masking and hiding his true motives and intentions. If eyes were the windows to the soul, then his windows were made of one-way glass. You could look out, but never in.

Lucia was still looking at him, watching, evaluating. She bent forward, took a sip of cappuccino, then asked: "Are you sleeping with him?"

Just a simple little question, and her voice impassive, almost disinterested, but it had the impact of a meteorite. It hit Eames completely unaware and instantly and effectively shattered his poker face.

"I… what…?"

Lucia raised her carefully plucked eyebrows, as if surprised by his reaction.

"What sort of question is that? That's not the first thing any sister would ask about her brother, is it? At least I doubt either of my sisters would. And especially not with a guy like Arthur."

"A guy like Arthur?" Lucia echoed. "Maybe your sisters don't know you as well as I know my brother, Mr. Eames."

"Considering that I have a very good relationship with all of my family, while Arthur refuses to even talk about his, including you, I somehow doubt that," Eames shot back.

"Alright then," Lucia replied, shrugging, "tell me what sort of man Arthur is… in your opinion." She raised a slender, expertly manicured hand and began to rearrange the white flowers in the large vase on the table.

"A good one, that much is for sure. Maybe not an honest, but an upright man. Hardworking, diligent, brave, careful, and fiercely loyal to his friends and most of all, his ideals. They may be a bit boring, but you could never accuse Arthur of being inconsistent."

_Not to mention, of course, that like you, he is also drop-dead gorgeous and that he could make my day just by smiling at me, which – regretfully – he never does._

Lucia plucked a magnolia from the vase on the table, carefully examining its large, half-opened flower, before putting it back and looking at Eames. "That's interesting," she said dryly, "either, my brother has changed down to the very core of his being – and recently, too – or you don't know him half as well as you think you do. My money is on the latter, to tell you the truth. Oh, you're right about some parts – he _is _a perfectionist and determined to the point of self-destructiveness, but fitting the words _ideals_ and _Arthur_ into one sentence seems a little difficult. You almost managed it, though." Her smile was somewhat patronizing when she added: "He has you fooled, hasn't he?"

Eames was by now starting to get a little tired of her attitude. "You don't have very much faith in him, do you?"

Lucia tilted her head to the side, apparently searching for an answer to that question. "Faith…? I guess I just know what I can and can't expect from him, Mr. Eames. Loyalty? Yes. Brotherly affection? Maybe. High moral values? Definitely not. Yes, Arthur cares for me. Always has. And despite everything else he's done, he's tried to keep me safe. But that alone isn't enough to make him a good person." She shook her head, looking almost sad. "The picture you painted of him… it's beautiful. But it just isn't right. Maybe there still is that side of him, hidden beneath all the other layers, but the boy I knew, the boy I once loved, is gone."

"Tell me about him," Eames said, unable to resist the fascination her words held for him.

"Why should I? I don't even know who you are. You might be his friend, or his mortal enemy. If I tell you, what will you do with that knowledge…? What purpose does it serve?"

"I want to understand him."

"Don't. Don't even try. It's frustrating. Arthur's an enigma, not a problem to be solved." She paused, her large, melancholy eyes resting on his face. There was a strange tenderness in her gaze. "But you love him, don't you?"

"Suppose I said yes…" Eames returned her gaze, his poker face wavering.

Lucia sighed. "Well, I guess then I would have to pity you and call you a fool. Loving Arthur is like tending to a garden of thorns, and there is hardly ever a rose among them. And there's no way out. But if you do… then I might as well tell you."

"Please."

"It's not a very interesting, and possibly not even an uncommon story. My grandmother, Maria Bianchi, emigrated to the US after the death of her parents and sister in 1946. She was pregnant at that time, and my mother, Monica, was born in San Francisco. But my grandmother was not fond of city life, having grown up in a small Sicilian village, so she moved to rural Montana when my mother was just a few years old. She found work, built a home and settled into the community there, but she never felt quite at home. When my mother married her high-school sweetheart, who had grown up to become a successful businessman, my grandmother left America to return to Italy, seeing that her only child was happy and well settled. Arthur and I were born and raised Americans. My mother taught us some of her maternal language, but otherwise, our grandmother remained the only link we had to Europe.

Arthur is actually three years older than me, and we were quite the perfect little family. My parents are hard-working, honest, but also very conservative people. They always wanted to do things right, and they always wanted Arthur and me to have the life they imagined for us.

My father had a younger sister, Katherine. We were very close to her and she often looked after Arthur and me when we were little. She got married when we were ten and thirteen years old. Her husband, Timothy, was a jovial, good-natured man and everybody liked him. Aunt Katherine, we agreed, was very happy to have him. They had two daughters, Wendy and Rose, and now it was Arthur and me, who looked after them. Well, more often Arthur than me, because I was always occupied with drama and dancing lessons, school plays and my first, secret boyfriend. Arthur was an earnest, quiet boy, very advanced and responsible for his age. He was also an excellent student, and my parents were very proud of him. But they did not really know him. As it turned out, not even I, who was closest to him back then, really knew him.

Well, I knew that Arthur was hiding something, and had been for a while. But then, being teenagers, we all had our little secrets, and I hadn't told him about Darwin – my first boyfriend – either, mainly because I was afraid of our parents learning the truth. They would not have approved of it. After all, I was only fourteen. Arthur, however, was hiding a somewhat more shocking secret. And unfortunately, it was Aunt Katherine who found out about it first. There is something truly disconcerting to finding your husband in bed with your teenage nephew, the boy you watched grow up and helped to raise. Aunt Katherine was shocked and furious, and probably screaming her lungs out, and she had every right to be mad at her husband, but I don't think she wanted to end the fight as it did. Not with Timothy lying dead at the bottom of the stairs. Not with Arthur having committed his first murder. Now, I don't know what exactly happened that day, because I wasn't there. I don't know if it was an accident, and Arthur tried to separate the two of them, causing Timothy to stumble, or if he deliberately pushed him down the stairs. But at the end of the day, my brother had taken one life, and utterly ruined another one. He was seventeen years old.  
Nothing ever was the same again after that day."

Lucia stared across the table, over the top of the flower-filled vase, as if looking into the distant past.

"Arthur left us. Timothy wasn't the only one who died that day; he took the grave, gentle, innocent boy I knew and loved with him. When I met Arthur again, he was an entirely different person. Sufficient to say that I liked his old self better. My parents never spoke another word to him. After my uncle's funeral, they never again mentioned his or Arthur's name. Aunt Katherine moved to Texas with her two little daughters. As far as I know, they are still living there. Wendy must be fifteen or sixteen now, and Rose a couple of years younger. As for Arthur and me – well, we both eventually came to Europe. I went to live with my grandmother, who is a formidable old lady, and I became what I had always wanted to be – an actress. Arthur visited many countries, but I don't think he has ever found a new home. He is restless, something of a nomad, and the company he keeps is somewhat shady." She offered him a wry look. "No offense, Mr. Eames."

"None taken," Eames replied absently. He was still trying to process the story she had told him. Cobb's mysterious hints suddenly fell into place like pieces of a grand puzzle, and other things, too, were finally starting to make sense. But the picture he got from those revelations was an unfriendly and somber one.

_Oh Arthur…! No wonder you didn't want me to ask...!_


	5. Showdown

Eames set down his cup of coffee with a semi-silent groan of exasperation. He had been to a great many airports during the errant past twelve years of his life, but this one was bad. Seriously bad. It held the sad and sole record of being the single most boring place Eames had ever been to (thereby surpassing several hospitals, a Cistercian monastery and the administrative district of Brussels on a Friday night).

It wasn't particularly big and it presented none of the attractions other airports usually offered, save some rather desolate coffee shops that served overpriced and not very appetizing sandwiches. The few existing shops were closed due to the holiday. The chairs in the waiting halls were uncomfortable, and from the noise the repair crews on the upper floor made, it sounded as if they were demolishing the airport rather than actually constructing anything. There were only about ten flights leaving that afternoon – and each and every one of them was late by at least one hour. Eames had already been waiting for two.

With another groan, he raised the cup again. It was his fourth. If this went on much longer, he'd die of caffeine poisoning (if there even was such a thing).

The only comfort he had, sat about 150 meters away in one of the waiting areas, his face hidden behind a day-old copy of _Le Figaro_. Eames leaned forward, trying to be inconspicuous, while getting a better look. Nothing had changed. Arthur was still in exactly the same position he had been twenty minutes ago. He hadn't even moved an inch. Eames began to wonder whether he was dozing off behind the paper, but then dismissed the thought. Arthur wouldn't do such a thing. He probably wasn't even bored.

Eames yawned. Wasn't following people in secret supposed to be sort of exiting and dangerous? So far, this had proven to be the most uneventful trip of his life. He had picked up Arthur's trail in Marrakesh, where the point man had met a contact, supposedly in order to buy some information on certain not exactly legal business ventures that would serve to put pressure on a potential target. It was somewhat murky. Arthur was pretty good at covering his tracks.

After spending two days in Marrakesh without visiting a single one of the city's many tourist attractions, Arthur had boarded a train to Casablanca. Eames was pretty sure that when buying his ticket and looking at the destination, Arthur had not once thought of Humphrey Bogart or Rick's Café. Come to think of it, Eames wasn't particularly fond of Humphrey Bogart either, but he thought that there were a couple of scenes in the movie when Ingrid Bergmann looked pretty hot.

And now, they were stuck here, at the most boring airport Eames had ever seen, waiting. He could think of half a dozen interesting and fun ways of spending time with Arthur, but none of them involved pretending not to be there.

When finally their flight was called, Eames heaved a heavy sigh of relief. He made sure that Arthur actually got on the plane instead of suddenly slipping away at the last possible moment, then settled down into his window seat at the very back of the plane. Arthur, of course, was up front, lounging in one of the first class chairs.

_You're a right little snob, love_, Eames thought with a smile.

* * *

Arthur changed planes at Charles-de-Gaulle, and Eames, having checked his itinerary with the help of a friendly, somewhat bedazzled flight attendant, followed him. About three hours later, they arrived in Naples.

Naples. A couple of weeks ago, Eames would have been surprised, but Arthur's Italian heritage shed a different light on the matter. Maybe Lucia wasn't the only one who had revived some family history.

_And they both keep their secrets. Arthur is the master of mysteries, and I bet he's hiding a lot more, and probably even darker things than a tragic first love and a dead uncle. And Lucia… well, I still want to know who Nico really is and why she needs a bodyguard…_

He followed Arthur through the chaotic airport, bustling with flocks of well-dressed businessmen, large, noisy families and clusters of lost-looking tourists. Arthur, who had slept like a log during most of both flights, showed no sign of weakness, but Eames, who had stayed up, keeping watch; was starting to feel rather exhausted.

That might have been the reason, why he let his guard drop slightly… a dangerous thing to do in a foreign environment, following his unsuspecting guide deep into the rotten heart of the city. Yeah, rotten seemed to be the right word. Eames had heard that Naples had some problems with waste management, but he had never imagined things to be that bad. The city was reeking to high heaven.

Dusk settled over the intricate network of streets and alleys, wrapping them in grey shades.

Arthur seemed to know exactly where he was going, but maybe he was just playacting. Eames still wondered what he was doing here at all.

_Paying a family visit, love? Your Granny lives in Venice, and your sister in Milan, so whom could you possibly be visiting?_

_Maybe a lover…?_

Eames seriously doubted that, but he still wasn't too pleased about the possibility. Arthur wasn't supposed to be visiting his lover; he wasn't supposed to even _have_ a lover. He was supposed to be mysterious, brooding, focused solely on his work and… _mine. You're supposed to be mine. You can pretend not to know about it pet, but I know better…_

Eames smiled at the thought. One of these days, and hopefully rather soon, he and Arthur were going to have an important little tête-à-tête.

He followed the point man round a corner and froze when Arthur stopped to look around. Holding his breath, Eames hoped that the sound of his footfalls had not betrayed him, but Arthur seemed to be on edge for other reasons. Eames caught him reaching a hand into his coat. Okay, if Arthur was getting out his weapon, he sure as hell would do the same. Apparently, the point man was expecting trouble, and there was no use doubting Arthur's finely tune senses.

He watched from the shadows as Arthur approached the nondescript door of the large building in front of him. It looked as if it had once been some sort of warehouse, but there was an air of neglect to it that suggested it hadn't been used for its original purpose in years. Or maybe it had, and the owners were just too chintzy to do something about the shabby exterior.

The ideal place to meet a business contact, but Arthur didn't seem to trust this one. Then again, Arthur probably trusted no one. He was usually better at hiding his distrust, though.

The door opened with an almost wailing creak, announcing to the entire neighborhood that someone was about to enter the building. Eames rolled his eyes. Great. Now whoever was waiting in the shadows behind that door would know that Arthur was here. Maybe somebody was preparing to shoot him this very minute.

_It is a business meeting_, he reminded himself, _most people don't shoot potential business partners._

But then again, he didn't know it was business, did he?

Carefully, he edged closer, just as Arthur ventured to step through the door. There were no sounds coming from within, but somehow that made Eames even more uncomfortable. Whoever was inside that house was waiting for something.

Arthur stepped inside without closing the door, a sure sign that he felt uneasy about the entire matter and wanted to have a means of escape.

_Very smart, darling_, Eames commented, _but you really should be watching your back, too. After all, you don't know that I'm here._

A shot sounded from within, and through the open door, Eames caught a flash of Arthur feinting to the left.

Okay. Definitely not a business meeting. Unless of course, the person within was a hired killer, but in that case, he wouldn't have missed. No, it looked more as if somebody wasn't too pleased with Arthur's intrusion. Time to act. No matter who was in there, Eames wouldn't let him shoot his favorite point man.

_Don't mess with Arthur; for he is both dangerous and well protected_, Eames thought as he heard the echo of Arthur's answering shot. Crouching low, he hastened across the narrow road to the door, risking a glance inside.

It was darker than outside, though not completely black. Both Arthur and the other shooter appeared to sit or stand motionless, he did not see either of them. Then, in a stroke of pure genius – or a moment of temporary insanity – Eames decided to make things more interesting and flip the light switch right next to the door. With a short zing, the neon lamps blazed into cold light, momentarily blinding everyone in the room. Eames, who had been prepared for the effect, was the first to recover.

To his left, half hidden behind a shelf filled with dusty boxes, crouched Arthur, gun in hand. As far as Eames could see, there were three other men in the room. One of them was a heavyset, fortyish businessman with smooth features and graying hair. He was wearing an expensive suit, and probably even more expensive leather shoes and blinked at the second intruder in surprise. The other men looked like professionals and would have been unimpressive in appearance but for the raised guns in their hands.

Just as Eames decided that it was probably a good idea to move out of the line of fire, the guy in the suit raised his hand. He rasped something in Italian that sounded a lot like "Don't shoot him yet."

Arthur, who had recovered from his shock, shouted something from behind the shelf. The only word that Eames caught was a name. _Giulio. _The barked reply appeared not to be to his liking. His tone got sharper, demanding answers, or maybe the fulfillment of an agreement. Eames caught another name. _Salvatore_.

The man in the suit grunted a reply that sounded suspiciously like "_Salvatore _can go fuck himself for all I care", before stepping back. That apparently was the signal for his two companions to start shooting around wildly.

So maybe they weren't professionals, Eames thought as he threw himself down onto the floor, instinctively dodging a bullet aimed his way. All the better, or both he and Arthur might have been dead by now. Instead, Arthur's second bullet hit one of the men in the stomach, felling him like a great tree. Eames was too busy scrambling into a more favorable position to cheer the point man. Once there, he aimed at the second man, but missed, because the idiot feinted out of the way, throwing himself in front of his quickly retreating boss, who hadn't even been Eames' target.

_Lucky bastard._

Arthur sprang out from behind the shelf, aiming a shot that turned out to be a near miss. The bad guy was fast; you had to give him credit for that. Arthur, however, wasn't fast enough and still taking aim for his next shot, when the opponent fired his. Without thinking, Eames threw himself in front of Arthur… the third stupid thing he'd done in one day.

_Am I getting sloppy, or is it just Arthur who's preventing me from thinking straight…? _He wondered, before a burning pain shooting through his shoulder wiped all thoughts clear from his mind. The pain drove him to his knees and brought tears to his eyes, so he did not see the second shooter falling after being hit squarely in the chest by a well placed bullet of Arthur's.

Heavy breathing sounded next to his ear, as Arthur dragged him up and to the side none too gently.

"Fuck you, Arthur, this hurts!" Eames hissed between half-clenched teeth.

"I don't care. There might be more of Gabriele's men out here. We've got to leave as fast as possible."

He dragged Eames out of the door, jogging down the narrow alley to their right. Eames felt like he was about to faint with pain and sudden exhaustion, and in his mind, he was heartily cursing Arthur, but there was no use in wasting his breath on that.

"Where are we going?"

"Safe house," Arthur hissed.

Not too far away, they suddenly heard sirens and the sound of several raised voices.

"_Carabinieri_. Even in this neighborhood, someone got suspicious and called the cops. Well, at least, that will take care of Gabriele and his people." Arthur was still running and breathing heavily.

"Who was that guy anyway?" Talking helped to keep the pain at bay, at least for a little while.

"Gabriele Ajala."

"And…? What is he? Mafia?"

"I guess you could say so."

"Great. Do tell me you didn't piss him off over anything."

"No, he's just pissed at my employer. Who neglected to mention that before, I'm afraid. In here."

He nearly pushed Eames through a half-opened gate set into high walls and into a small courtyard. They went up a short flight of steps leading to an improvised little porch, and Arthur rang the bell. Seconds later, a lean woman stepped out, taking in the two men on her doorstep with obvious surprise. "Arthur, what the hell…?"

She spoke with an unmistakable American accent.

"Valentina," Arthur breathed, seeming relieved. "Is Santino here?"

She shook her head. "No. He's down in Palermo."

"Damn. The children?"

"At their grandmother's house. Arthur, what is the matter…?"

"Good," Arthur said, ignoring her question. "You do keep a first-aid kit in the house, don't you, Valentina?"

Her mouth twisted into a sarcastic smile. "With my husband's profession and acquaintances, I have to, don't I? Who's the handsome man bleeding all over my doorstep?"

"Don't concern yourself with his name. We will not be bothering you for long. But I need to take care of his shoulder, and I need you to pass a message on to Santino. Tell him that Gabriele apparently hasn't forgotten his old grudge. And that the boy is most likely dead."

"Sara's and Michele's boy?" She asked in obvious dismay. "Why…? He was just a child… did Gabriele…?"

Arthur shrugged, suddenly looking very tired. "Gabriele wants to hurt somebody. The best way to do that right now would be to kill the boy."

"_Somebody_ will not be pleased."

"No, indeed he won't."

"Poor Sara. To kill a child, just because his…"

"Say no more," Arthur cut her off, shaking his head.

"Come and sit in the living room, while I get out the first-aid kit."

Eames looked at Arthur as they sat down into plushy armchairs. "You _will_ tell me what this is all about, won't you, darling?"

Arthur sighed. "I shouldn't."

"Yeah, you should."

Holding his gaze, Arthur asked quietly: "Can I trust you?"

"I just took a bullet for you, love. I think you can answer that question for yourself."

* * *

_Unlike Arthur, I do not have Mafia connections, nor do I speak Italian (even though I am able to read it, having spent four years translating latin texts in school). Therefore, if you feel that anything should be corrected or just sounds a little weird, please tell me - now, and in the future. However, I have spent way too much time at Casablanca airport recently, something that I wouldn't recommend to anybody. Avoid it if you can. The description above is fairly accurate. Also, I apologize to all Belgians who might read this. I do love your chocolate and your hospitality, I just hate Brussels. But that's not your fault..._


	6. Trust

"It doesn't look too bad," Valentina said, after a quick look at the wound. She handed the first aid kit too Arthur. "I'll let you take care of it, while I get you some warm water and a towel."

Arthur merely nodded, then started rummaging in the brightly red bag.

"You guys do this regularly?" Eames asked suspiciously.

"He only stops by when he needs help," Valentina called from the bathroom, her voice half drowned by the sound of running water. "So the only way I ever get to see Arthur is either injured, drunk or on the run… or any combination of the three."

"Huh." Eames looked at Arthur, raising an eyebrow. "And here I was thinking that you led a boring life."

Arthur ignored his comment. "Do you have a pair of scissors?" He asked Valentina.

"Should be somewhere in there. Side pocket, I believe."

"Yes…" Arthur took out the scissors, taking a step towards Eames.

"Hey, what are you…"

"Getting you out of your shirt."

"Why, Arthur, so that's what this is all about? An elaborate ploy to see me naked? You should have told me! I could have saved you a world of trouble." Eames smirked despite the pain. Arthur shot him a look that was anything but amused, but he _did_ seem slightly flustered. What more could you ask, really?

Valentina, returning from the bathroom carrying a large porcelain bowl filled with steaming water, laughed. "Charming, isn't he? You should bring your injured friends along more often. But you're wasting your time with him," she told Eames, "Arthur's all business and no fun. Better use your charm on somebody who's able to appreciate it."

"Are you offering?" Eames asked, winking at her.

Valentina gave him a once-over. "Hum, tempting… I guess I wouldn't say no." She grinned.

"Your husband would, though," Arthur said drily, "and I'm not putting him back together, just so Santino can shoot him. Now hold still," he told Eames, who watched as he cut the fabric with precise, unhurried movements. Arthur's gentle, warm hands on his upper body as he helped him out of the rest of the shirt… it was almost worth getting shot more often. He closed his eyes and tried not to wince at the pain as Arthur cleaned some of the blood away, disinfected and treated the wound.

"You will need to see a doctor about this, and soon," he noted.

"Mhm." Eames was starting to feel strangely lethargic. Exhaustion, blood loss and pain didn't mix well, or so it seemed.

"Here," he blinked and saw Valentina offering a small silver tray with three glasses and a little plate with two white pills. "First the pain killer for the body, then the pain killer for the mind."  
Eames took the pills, then sniffed at the glass suspiciously. The smell was alcoholic and vaguely familiar.  
"What is it?"

"Grappa," Valentina said, raising her own glass, "Alla salute!"

* * *

Racing through the velvety darkness that lay like a thick, smooth cover over the pre-dawn Italian countryside, the low purring of the black Mercedes had almost lulled Eames in. Lingering questions, however, kept him awake. Arthur had not explained how he had come by the car, or whether it was his own or someone else's, just as he hadn't explained why he was in such a rush to leave.

They were driving northwards, and Eames felt dangerously uninformed.

"Valentina did not seem surprised when we turned up at her house," he noted.

"She's seen worse, I suppose." Arthur said, not taking his eyes from the road.

"I sort of feel bad, you know… I probably ruined her armchair."

"Don't worry. Valentina has a lot of experience removing bloodstains from all types of different fabric. And she likes you."

"And she likes me…" Eames paused for a minute before asking: "So, who is she? Lover? Former girlfriend? Family?"

"I am friends with her husband, Santino, and his sister."

"They must be interesting people, considering that Valentina found nothing strange about treating a gunshot wound in the middle of the night. My mother and sisters would have a fit if I brought a bleeding guy to their homes."

"Your sisters?" Arthur asked. "How many do you have?"

"Come on, darling, you're the point man. Don't tell me you didn't do a background check on me when we first started working together."

"I… alright, maybe I did. I wanted to know whom I was dealing with," Arthur said, a strange inflection in his voice.

"Perfectly understandable. I don't mind the question, though. I have two sisters and a kid brother… well, actually, he isn't that little anymore, but still… fourteen years of age difference are quite a bit. Their named are Julia, Katie – Katherine, actually – and Philipp. And since they all, as well as my parents and stepfather are pretty normal, boring people, they would object to me bringing home injured people."

Arthur nodded slowly. "My parents were the same."

_Well, except for the fact that __**my**__ family would have forgiven me… they would not have cast me out. I did a lot of… bad stuff, but they always seem happy to see me. And I'm sure they'd like you, pet, for that matter…_

They were silent for a little while. Arthur drove and kept his eyes on the road. Eames had begun to doze off, when a quiet question roused him from his stupor. "Why did you follow me?" Arthur asked.

_Why indeed?_

Eames would have shrugged, but moving his shoulder seemed a bad idea right now. "Don't know. Maybe because I had an inkling that you were off to do something incredibly stupid and needed rescuing?"

"It looks more as if I were rescuing you, actually," Arthur pointed out.

"Fine. Next time, I'll let you take the take the bullet then, instead of diverting it for you. Just so I can be the one dragging you to safety, you know." Eames was starting to get annoyed. He was in pain, and he felt that Arthur could have been a bit more grateful. No… make that a lot more grateful.

"That was a stupid thing to do, really."

"Oh, like walking into a dark warehouse where a group of trigger-happy Mafiosi are waiting for you…?"

"It was supposed to be a business transaction, not a shootout. Gabriele had something my employer wanted, and we had already agreed on a prize. It was supposed to be a fair deal."

Eames snorted. "Really, how naïve are you, pet? There are no fair deals in the world of muggers and murderers."

"You don't need to tell me that," Arthur snapped. "But Gabriele is essentially a business man. And people will stop doing business with you, when words get around that you shoot them on sight."

"Yeah, well, maybe he just doesn't like you. Does he hold a grudge against Americans, maybe?"

"To him, I'm Italian. But he does hold a grudge against my employer."

"You are getting sloppy, Arthur. I'm surprised. Why didn't you check out that angle before you agreed on a midnight meeting with him?"

Arthur visibly ground his teeth. "Because I trusted him."

"Fascinating. You don't trust your friends, but you trust your employer?" Eames replied scathingly.

"You don't understand."

"No, I don't. There are a lot of things I don't understand about you, and they are starting to give me headaches."

"You could just leave me alone."

With effort, Eames turned in his seat to look at him, but all he got see was a shady profile of Arthur's face. "Sorry, not an option, pet."

* * *

Eames was only semi-conscious by the time they arrived in Rome. He realized that he had to trust Arthur, which was scary enough in itself, but what made it even worth was the fact that Arthur seemed determined to leave him alone in a strange environment with strange people, speaking a strange, melodic language.

Eames was not amused.

"What…? Are you simply going to abandon me?" He whined.

"Be reasonable," Arthur chided. "They will take good care of you here. I'll see you in Philadelphia for the next job."

Looking around the meticulously clean hospital room with its white walls, white furniture and oh-so-soft white bed sheets, Eames did not doubt that. This was a private hospital, upscale and discreet. The other patients were probably a mixture of international arms dealers trying to stay under the radar of the respective agencies snapping at their heels, Saudi-Arabian princesses having their virginity restored after an illicit affair and elderly, somewhat shady Italian business men in the league of a Silvio Berlusconi, desperately trying to preserve their youth.

Eames sighed and carefully moved to a more comfortable position. It felt good to finally be able to stretch out on a bed. It would have felt even better, had Arthur sat at his bedside, holding his hand and murmuring soft, enchanted words.

"Where are you going?" Eames asked drowsily.

"I have… business to attend to."

"Try not to get shot, stabbed, strangled or maimed, 'kay?"

"Are you worried about me…?" It sounded incredulous.

"Well… your sister would probably miss you."

"Why are you bringing Lucia into this?" Arthur asked sharply.

"She's a nice girl. And she loves you." He should not have said it.

"You spoke to Lucia? You _met _her?" Arthur's voice was a dangerously quiet hiss now.

"You wouldn't tell me what I needed to know. So I asked her."

"I see," Arthur said, the hiss now colder than an icy gust of winter wind. "So she told you… everything."

"No, not everything, love," Eames murmured, "there's still a lot left… for _you_ to tell me."

But the door had already closed behind Arthur.

* * *

_My dearly beloved readers, the next chapter of this story is already written (actually, the next two are), but I will not post it before I haven't gotten at least two reviews on this one. Therefore don't be shy... I appreciate all comments._


	7. A Family Feud

Eames was in a bad mood when his plane landed in Philadelphia four days later. The doctors in Rome had been very reluctant to let him go, but apparently, they were used to stubborn patients, so they did the best they could and sent him away with the card of a colleague who had set up shop at another private clinic in Philadelphia. Eames arrived jet-lagged, groggy and with a dull throb in his shoulder. The only ray of hope was Arthur's almost-promise to be there, despite his earlier assurances that he wouldn't be able to make it.

It was Ariadne, who picked him up at the airport, and she was the first one to suffer his bad mood.

"You're hurt!" She stated, her cherry lips forming a dismayed O. "What happened?"

"Arthur." Eames grunted, before busying himself with his suitcase.

"Arthur _hurt you_?" There was alarm in her voice.

"No," Eames huffed, "I wouldn't put it past him to shoot me, if he got really pissed at me, but he'd probably make sure it was permanent. Arthur doesn't do things by halves."

"Eames! Don't say such things! Arthur would never…"

"I'm not so sure. Anyway, it wasn't him. It was _because of him_. There was a guy trying to shoot him, and I was experiencing a sentimental moment, so I stepped in the way."

Ariadne squealed. "That is sooo romantic!"

"Actually, it was mostly painful."

"Oh, poor Eames…! But still – you saved his life."

"To tell you the truth, he didn't seem to appreciate it very much."

"What? You didn't argue, did you?"

_Did we?_

"Eames…? What did you do to him?"

"Do to him? Nothing. Why does it always have to be me doing something to Arthur? I'm not the big bad wolf, you know. And if Arthur's wearing a lambskin then it's just to hide his claws and teeth."

"Hum." Ariadne seemed pensive at that. "Here, let me help you with the suitcase," she said, but Eames could see that her mind was working double-time.

* * *

Ariadne was still chewing on her lower lip when they entered the living room of the apartment Cobb had rented under the name of Maximilian Fortescue for this particular job, which made Eames slightly jumpy. She was up to something. Something he was probably not going to like.

"Eames," Cobb said, looking up from the paper he had been reading. "Arthur left me a somewhat strange message, saying that you had gotten hurt. How bad is it?" _And why was Arthur there with you? _his suspicious look added.

"Not bad enough to keep me in a hospital," Eames huffed, "so no worries."

"But I _do_ worry," Cobb assured him, getting up. "I don't take kindly to people who try to shoot my forger." He placed a hand on Eames' uninjured shoulder and submitted him to a scrutinizing gaze.

"Arthur took care of the guy. He should be six feet under by now, assuming that Italian bad guys bury their dead."

"Italian…?" Cobb asked, frowning, then he sighed. "You _followed_ Arthur." There was an unmistakable note of disapproval in his voice.

"So?"

"Dangerous and foolish, Eames. And probably fruitless."

He was right on the last part, but Eames would have rather bitten his tongue off than admitted to that.

"What do you know that I don't?" He asked defiantly.

Another sigh. "Eames…"

"I'm all ears."

"Arthur hasn't always been in the extraction business and there are still some strings attached to his old life. I warned him that he would come to regret that sooner or later, but Arthur is not exactly… keen on people meddling in his affairs."

"I noticed that, yes," Eames said drily. "So those strings…?"

"Are in the hands of some very shady people. It might not be legal what we're doing for a living, but they have raised crime to a form of art. Any kind of crime."

„Arthur has Mafia connections? Come on! I know that he's part Italian, but that's just too… Hollywood."

"Well, he does. It's family related, actually. His grandmother is from the same village as the boss' family. They are probably even related… distant cousins or something."

"Great," Eames groaned. "Just what I needed. Why can't there be one thing about him that is actually normal and not either life-threateningly dangerous or infuriatingly mysterious?"

Cobb cast him an odd look and opened his mouth to speak, but just as he did so, the object of their conversation entered the apartment with confident, long strides as if he owned the place. He was dressed as immaculately as usual, a custom tailor's wet dream, with his hair gelled back and his face that impenetrable mask Eames would have loved to shatter.

_Sometimes, I really hate you, darling. Right now, for example._

Arthur surprised him though – he was developing a real talent for that – crossing the room in four long strides and coming to a stop right next to Cobb, who was now staring back and forth between his two friends, frowning.

"You should not have left the hospital."

"If I remember correctly, you said _I'll see you in Philadelphia_. That sort of implies that you expected me to be here. Besides, you didn't come to visit me."

"What are you, five?" Arthur replied, sounding annoyed, but it might have been only a cover for some other emotion. You could never tell with Arthur.

"You left me." Eames stated, pouting. "After I saved your life, I might add. I spent days in complete and utter boredom, because doctors and nurses are really not the most entertaining people to be around."

"You should have called me, _I _would have come to visit you," Ariadne chirped and sent Arthur a look of disapproval that clearly said she would have thought better of him than not to visit an injured friend at the hospital. Eames felt reassured by that look.

"That's sweet of you, hon," he said, throwing a quick smile her way, "but now I'm out. And you," – he turned back to Arthur, poking at his chest with a finger, "have something to make up for."

"Well, you can settle accounts after the job," Cobb cut in. "For now, let's get to work, shall we?"

* * *

The job was… interesting to say the least. It revolved around a family feud, with the family in question making the Kennedy's look like poor backwoods relations. Two years ago, their patriarch, Alexander E. Torell, had died aged sixty-one, apparently of a stroke. For some reason or other, nobody in his immediate family was willing to believe that even for a second, so they launched a fully-fledged murder investigation. The main suspect? Torell's second wife, Federica Torell-Mendoza, an ex-actress twenty years his junior.

There were two daughters and a son, as well as the first wife, several lawyers and partners arguing that since she appeared to be the only one profiting from his will, she had to be guilty. And they all wanted to have an extraction performed, yet for different reasons.

Charles Torell, the son, and his sister Clarice, who hated each other passionately, wanted to proof that their stepmother had secreted their father's real will away and replaced it by another that was more favorable to herself. They also wanted a larger share of the inheritance.

Cora Torell, the second daughter, who was "not interested in material wealth, but only in the treasures of the mind" and had just returned from a spiritual stay in an Indian Ashram, wanted to do her father justice.

Mary Torell, née Frederickson, the first wife, wanted revenge. She had been very disappointed when Cobb had told her that he would not have agreed to permanently damage the mark's mind, even if he had been able to do so.

Eames found the entire Torell clan to be vastly entertaining. Cora's ramblings on Ayurveda and spiritualism, the way Charles' tried to cover his greed with a mask of righteous indignation, Mary's torrents of hatred, and Clarice' sharp-tongued remarks on her brother's overall inaptitude were a priceless mixture, but the best part was to watch the seemingly undisturbed widow spend her late husband's fortune under the furious eyes of his other relations.

They were sitting at an upscale sushi restaurant now, watching the widow – sparkling like a rainbow with gold and gemstones – flirt with the twenty-five year old server, who seemed to be more dazzled by her diamonds than by her smile. Or at least, Eames was watching her, _Arthur_ on the other hand appeared to have set his eyes on another jewel.

Eames averted his gaze from the widow and inconspicuously gave the object of Arthur's fascinationa once-over. She was beautiful; you had to give him that. One of those long-legged creatures with long, dark hair, smoldering dark eyes and natural grace, who seemed to have stepped right out of a magazine. Her dress was black, short, and elegant. The only jewelry she wore was a pair of coral earrings. If there was such a thing as hate on first sight, then Eames was experiencing it just now.

He kicked Arthur's shin. "Hey! We're supposed to watch the evil stepmother, not Cinderella."

Arthur turned to look at him. "I _was_ watching her."

Eames snorted. "Yeah, right. Listen, if you're feeling a bit lonely…"

"Eames. She's leaving."

And indeed she was, the waiter eagerly hastening to the door, opening it for her with a low bow. She had to have given him a generous tip, Eames mused.

* * *

After they had managed to lure their mark to a secure spot, which had taken a bit of creativity on Arthur's and a lot of charm on Eames' part, the extraction itself proved surprisingly easy. Ariadne had built them a wonderfully decadent dreamscape, Arthur's attention for detail helping her to perfect it, and the job really didn't ask much in the way of Eames' forging talents, since the mark was female and unmistakably not interested in other women. He was therefore left to play himself and had the widow wrapped around his finger in no time.

She was flirting with him, putting a suggestive hand on his knee, laughing too loudly, but Eames was dividing his attention between her and Arthur, who stood stiffly near the back of the restaurant, impersonating a waiter. The role suited him.

He was too far away for Eames to read his facial expression, but maybe that was good. This way, Eames was free to imagine a pink flush of anger rising to his marble cheeks as jealousy sparked within his eyes, setting them ablaze…

A daydream within a dream.

_Stop it. Stop it now._

The widow was vain and not all-too intelligent, a combination that made it easy to deceive her. Without much effort, they got everything they wanted from her… the whole story about she had switched her husband's heart medication for a worthless placebo, then waited patiently for the desired effect. They learned that she had indeed switched the wills and that the true will split the fortune equally amid the three children, granting both the first and second wife only a relatively small share. Apparently, Alexander Torell had been a firm believer in the old saying that blood is thicker than water.

Cobb was pleased, you could tell it by his smile when they returned to the real world. Eames complained that after all, this was a pretty boring ending to the story and that he had at least hoped for the murder to have been a joint effort of Federica and Charles, who were having an illicit love affair. Ariadne giggled.

Arthur seemed distracted.

* * *

_Please read & review, guys. _

_Reviews are like butterflies, they really do brighten up my day ;)_

_By the way, I know this is sort of a slow building love story, but we'll get there eventually, I promise. For those of you who are more into the fluffy, humorous kind of stories, read "Everybody Knows". _


	8. The Girl With The Coral Earrings

"Found you!" James shouted happily after discovering Eames in his hiding place inside the large wardrobe.

"Okay, you win," Eames admitted, "but we still have to find Philippa. Where could she be hiding?"

"Maybe the bathroom," James suggested, "at home, she always hides in the bathroom. She locks the door and pretends its occupied."

Eames laughed. "Sneaky. Typical girl, isn't she?"

James nodded solemnly.

"My sister Katie was the same. Well, actually she still is. Except that she doesn't hide in the bathroom anymore."

"Does she also make you play dress up with her?" James asked with a pained expression on his round face.

"Oh yes," Eames replied emphatically, thinking that the last Halloween party Katie and her husband had forced him to attend definitely qualified as playing dress up.

"She always wants me to play the prince," James said.

"Would you rather be the princess?" Eames asked, chuckling.

"No!" Said with all the righteous indignation of a little boy hurt in his pride.

Eames smiled.

"Shush!" James made as they approached the bathroom.

Eames put a finger to his lips, to signal his agreement. They slowly advanced upon the bathroom door, then Eames threw it open in one rapid motion. Philippa was nowhere inside, but there was a telltale ripple in the shower curtain.

"Got you!" Eames exclaimed as he scooped up the squealing girl and lifted her out of the bathtub.

"You cheated!" Philippa accused them. "You weren't supposed to help him!"

"What shall we do with her now?" Eames asked James, ignoring Philippa's protests.

"Um… feed her to the crocodiles?"

"Great idea, but the zoo is rather a long way to walk. Maybe we could take her to Ariadne instead, so she can put her into that silly dress again?"

"Noooo!" Philippa wailed. Mal's only sister, maternal aunt to the children, was getting married that month and wanted to have Philippa as a flower girl. Feeling ill-prepared to deal with such questions as dresses and flower baskets, Dom had asked Ariadne to help. Philippa liked Ariadne, but she did not appreciate to be treated like a baby doll and she had no patience for extensive dress-fitting sessions.

Throwing Philippa over his shoulder, Eames returned to the living room. He dumped her on the sofa, right in front of Ariadne, who was arranging violets in a vase.

"I found your fugitive," he announced. "Well, actually James did."

"Oh, good," Ariadne said, smiling at them all.

"Please!" Philippa pleaded. "No more taking on and off that silly dress. Why does it have to be white? I look like I'm dead when I wear that! Why can't it be pink?"

"Because your aunt wants a white wedding," Ariadne explained patiently for the umpteenth time.

"It's stupid!" Philippa insisted.

"Tell you what," Eames said, "you can wear pink at my wedding. I _promise_. I'll even make everybody else wear pink, too."

"Really?" Philippa looked at him, then burst into laughter. "Even Daddy and James?"

"Especially those two," Eames assured her.

"You are getting married, Eames?" Ariadne asked, raising her eyebrows.

"Well, eventually I will," he replied, shrugging it off and wincing, because the blasted shoulder still hurt.

"And do I know the lucky person?" She insisted.

"Yes, I think you do," Eames replied calmly. "But we aren't quite at that point yet."

"I see."

* * *

"You are really good with them," Ariadne told him later, when the children were happily watching cartoons in the living room. "You'd be a good father, too, Eames."

"But…? I did hear a But in there." Eames swirled his brandy, gazing thoughtfully into the amber colored liquid.

"Well, considering your love interest, I should say that it is unlikely you will be in the near future. Especially, since he is taking the lovely Gillian to dinner tonight."

Eames ground his teeth. "I hate that woman."

"I imagine you would." Ariadne cast him a knowing look, but there was also pity in her eyes. "I'm sorry Eames."

"Yeah? Well, I'm angry. I saved his life and Arthur wouldn't even say thank you. All _she_ has to do is bat her long dark lashes, and he's wax in her hands."

"She _is_ very pretty," Ariadne said.

"That's not the reason Arthur is dating her. Well, it might be the ostensible reason, but in truth he is dating her because he's scared. He had the ideal of a perfect little family, strong husband, loving wife two little kids and a house with a picket fence, drilled into him as a youth, and now he's chasing a phantom. He's turning thirty next month. It's nothing but fear of being left on the shelf." Eames didn't like the bitterness that had stolen into his voice at those words, but he could not keep it hidden any longer. He was growing tired of hiding things.

"You don't think he likes her?"

"If he does, then in the way you like a flashy new sports car or a diamond ring. She's nothing but a symbol, a thing to show off to his friends and family. Especially the family."

"Does Arthur have issues with his family?"

"Issues? Yes, you could say that."

"Eames…" Ariadne sighed, leaning her head on his shoulder, "why won't you just tell him?"

"He's not ready to hear it yet."

"Maybe, but will he ever be?"

_Yes_, Eames heard his heart scream, _yes, of course he will._

The rational part of him was a bit more doubtful, though.

* * *

Cobb, Ariadne and the kids were staying in Philadelphia for the wedding, and Eames decided to stay with them, since he really didn't have anything better to do. Or so he told himself. However, the fact that Arthur was still in the city, held back by the seductive smiles of one Gillian Farrow, might have added to his resolve.

Gillian. The girl with the coral earrings.

Arthur actually brought her along one evening, and they shared a rather awkward meal, with Ariadne straining to make polite conversation and Cobb shooting furtive glances at Eames, as if he expected him to explode any moment. Eames ground his teeth, listening to the sweet lilt of her voice, seeing the smiles she gave Arthur, and entertaining fantasies about her violent death. Oddly enough, Arthur himself didn't seem perfectly happy either.

_Yes, _a mean little voice inside Eames' head cried out in bitter satisfaction, _yes, I want you to suffer for being with her instead of me!  
_But he knew that he didn't really want to see Arthur unhappy. He just didn't want to see him happy with Gillian, either.

He was glad when a distraction offered itself in the form of Saito waltzing back into their lives with a wedding invitation – why was everybody getting married lately? – and a job offer. The job was to take place in Dubai, and Cobb needed somebody to go there to scout the premises. Normally, that would likely have been Arthur's job, but he was distracted, so Eames went in his stead.

Saito was there to greet him, seeming unnaturally jovial and even more generous than usual, but the mystery resolved itself when Eames got to meet his fiancée and saw the way Saito was looking at her like she was the most precious thing in the world.  
Her name was Sakura, cherry blossom, and it fit perfectly. Eames' had never seen a lovelier creature in his life (well, except Arthur in one of those rare moments when he seemed perfectly happy and at ease). She was all huge dark eyes, gentle smiles and graceful movements.

She knew Dubai well, and when Saito excused himself for a couple of business meetings, offered to show Eames around the city. He accepted. Who was he to decline spending a day in the company of a lovely woman, who was not only beautiful to look at, but could also maintain a conversation on everything from modern art to current affairs in six different languages? Still, he had to tease Saito a bit about it when they met again that night, sharing drinks at his 78th floor Burj Khalifa apartment.

"I'm surprised you trusted me enough to leave me alone with her. And for an entire day," he remarked.

Saito averted his gaze from the windows and slowly turned to face him, his lips twisting in a sphinxian half-smile. "Maybe I know something about you that would make me less wary?" he offered.

"Oh?" Eames raised his eyebrows.

"Tell me, Mr. Eames, how is our friend Arthur doing?" Saito asked with a mischievous glint dancing in his eyes.

"Why would I know that?" Eames asked back, trying to sound indifferent.

Saito studied his face for a moment, then waved a vague hand. "Well, maybe I assumed too much…"

_Yes. Unfortunately, you did._

* * *

The others arrived about a week later. Ariadne was in high spirits, chatting about the wedding, Philippa looking adorable in her dress, a new project and the possibility of writing her thesis. Her architect self was delighted with the possibility to visit and closely examine the tallest building in the world, and she asked a rather puzzled Saito dozens of questions he couldn't answer, since his interest in architecture was rather limited. Cobb, on the other hand, seemed worried. But then, Cobb always worried about something, so that was rather unsurprising.

Arthur was moody and morose. At first, Eames suspected that he would have preferred to stay in Philadelphia with Gillian, but a short conversation with Cobb on the evening of their arrival cleared up that misunderstanding.

"They broke up," Cobb said, shaking his head as if he couldn't believe it.

So Gillian was gone.

Eames felt his heart lighten instantly.

Cobb shot him a warning look. "Arthur is rather unhappy. You had better leave him alone."

Eames looked back, frowning. _On what planet are you living, Dom?_

Cobb sighed. "Or maybe not," he murmured.

"I promise to be good," Eames said, unable to keep that stupidly happy grin off his face.

"You know, that's exactly what worries me most."

"Come on, Dom. I thought you knew." Eames replied lightly.

"I just don't want either of you to get hurt, okay?"

"Stop being paternal."

"Don't do anything stupid, Eames…"

"The windows don't open. There's no way Arthur can push me out of one of them. And I'll make sure to check him for guns before saying anything that might set him off."

"It's not funny, Eames."

"Do you see me laughing?"

* * *

He found Arthur in one of the back rooms of the apartment, sitting in the semi-darkness and staring down at the flood of lights that was Dubai at night. The scenery reminded Eames forcibly of their last nightly conversation. Would Arthur be as… open as he had been last time?

Eames tried to be quiet, but the point man had very good hearing. His head jerked up.

"Eames."

The unspoken _you're the last person I want to see right now _hung in the air between them.

"Arthur," Eames replied in kind, strolling over to the window. "I heard you might need a shoulder to cry on, so I came to offer mine."

Arthur snorted. "Very funny. Leave me alone."

"No." Eames slid to the floor next to him. "You _do_ have a thing for nightly skylines, don't you?" He remarked.

"Eames," Arthur warned, his voice a soft hiss, "what do you want?"

Eames shrugged. "Oh, you know… just the usual: wealth, power, fame, eternal youth – but since you're not the devil, I'd settle for less."

"I might be worse," Arthur pointed out, and there was no trace of humor in his voice.

"You, love?" Eames asked, drawing an arm around him. He felt Arthur stiffen, but was determined to ignore it. "Nah, you're an angel. Your wings might be broken right now, but they'll heal and you'll be your old smug, pretty, insufferable self again."

Arthur relaxed a little bit. "You're an idiot," he said, but it sounded almost fond. Eames held his breath. Arthur sighed. "I just want to know why, Eames. I don't know what's wrong with me. She's gorgeous. She's funny. She's a wonderful listener; she enjoys the same music, the same books, and the same plays as I do… she even likes Italian food. Why can't I be with her and be happy?"

Eames cast him a sympathetic, but also knowing glance from the side. "Maybe because you're simply not attracted to her, pet," he suggested kindly, "Oh, don't get me wrong, you do admire her. You admire her for her beauty and her wit and that cute little smile she flashes you whenever she sees you. But it just doesn't go deeper than that. And there's no sexual attraction whatsoever."

Arthur jerked free and stared at him for a flat minute, his jaw dropping, his eyes widening, before he caught grip of his facial expressions. He sighed. "But she's perfect," he protested weakly.

"Maybe," Eames replied, "but not for you. You can't be happy with her. Not even for just a few days and nights. And it really isn't your fault. We don't choose who we are, Arthur…"

Arthur was quiet for a moment; then his next words carried a sarcastic undertone: "I think I hate my sister. You really shouldn't know all this about me."

Eames smiled. "She loves you."

_So do I, but you're not ready to hear that yet._

* * *

_Hi everyone! I must confess, I'm a bit disappointed with you... NO reviews on that last chapter? Not even a "Come on, Cesca, that was crap and you know it?" Really guys, either you've all gone on holiday together, or you're getting lazy... ;) I know that 32 of you have this story on your alert list and that it's a favorite to 12 of you, which is absolutely lovely and thrills me to death, but (you knew there was going to be a "but", didn't you?) I'd still appreciate a couple of comments. Constructive criticism is always welcome, and so are requests, if you have any._

_ You must think me a bit of a sadist by now, considering what I'm doing to Eames, but I just can't do this any faster. Arthur has ISSUES. It'll take him time to come to terms with them. I promise you that they'll both be deliriously happy (or at the very least both happy and delirious) later on.  
_


	9. Rescue Mission

One of the things Eames liked about Saito's new girlfriend – fiancée, bride-to-be, whatever – was that Sakura definitely knew to throw a party. Saito was a shrewd business man and once you got to know him better, a generous friend and a great partner in crime, but he had always been a bit stiff when it came to social events. The poor chap just didn't know how to relax, if you asked Eames.

Sakura, on the other hand, not only was an excellent hostess, but she also appeared to be genuinely enjoying herself. She hit off well with Ariadne, and within a matter of minutes had both Cobb and Yusuf eating out of her hand. Even Arthur made an effort to respond to her bright smiles and cheerful manner.

Add a great location, the manifold and exquisite contents of Saito's bar and the excitement about a new job to that and you got a great evening. Eames didn't get to see his bed before half past two in the morning, but he couldn't remember having as much fun in – what? The past four or five months? In any case, it was kind of nice to have friends who were easy-going and happy, as opposed to difficult, morose and generally infuriating.

Eames stretched out on the King size bed with a sigh.

_Oh Arthur…! _

Sometimes, he felt ready to hit the point man for being so goddamn obnoxious and oblivious. But then he remembered how helpless and confused Arthur had seemed earlier that night, when he had told him about Gillian, and all he really wanted was to hug him and tell him everything was going to be alright… someday.

He idly wondered whether Arthur was indeed unable to understand his own feelings or simply chose to ignore them in favor of acting on what he thought they should have been.

Somewhere in-between that thought and fantasizing about hearing a whispered confession along the lines of _'I can't believe how blind I've been all this time…' _which obviously would lead to Arthur actually expressing his feelings _for him_, he must have fallen asleep. Either that, or Cobb had learned how to sneak up on people without making the slightest bit of noise, and Eames seriously doubted that.

Blinking disorientedly, Eames tried to adjust his tired eyes to the sudden brightness of light. He could make out the large shade of his friend looming above him, slightly frayed at the edges where his vision was still blurry. And for some reason, Cobb had grabbed his pajama shirt and seemed ready to shake him awake if he didn't react immediately.

Eames groaned and yawned. It looked rather like a lion opening his mouth to swallow Cobb as a whole. "What the hell, Dom…!" His eyes fell on the bright display of the alarm clock on the nightstand. It read 06:04. "It's six o'clock in the bloody morning and I only got to bed two hours ago," Eames whined. "Is the house on fire, or what?"

"No, but I can't find Arthur."

"Why would you be looking for Arthur at this ungodly hour?" Needless to say that he was a bit slow. Lack of sleep and the beginnings of a sizable hangover would do that to you.

"Eames!" Cobb shouted, this time actually grabbing his shoulders and pulling him up. He was a lot stronger than Eames had thought. He'd have to remember that, in case they ever got into a fight… oh, right. Focus.

"I want you to get up and help me search for him."

"Huh…? Why?" Eames got up with another yawn. "It's _Arthur_, Dom. Where else would he be but in his bedroom at this time?"

"He isn't." Cobb replied curtly. "I checked, because I hadn't seen him leave, and yet he was suddenly gone when I bade Saito and Sakura goodnight. And considering the state he was in last night, I don't feel comfortable not knowing where he is or what he's doing."

"And you accuse me of crowding him…?" Eames asked, while grabbing a pair of pants. Still, the unspoken suggestion was anything but comforting. Of course you had to take into consideration that Cobb was something of a worrywart, but Arthur _had_ seemed quite upset… "He probably just went for a walk."

"Maybe. It's not impossible that he took his gun along, though. Or decided to take his walk someplace high up and dangerous."

"If I understood anything from Ariadne's ramblings yesterday it's that the Burj Khalifa is quite probably the worst place to commit suicide in this entire city," Eames said, his words slightly muffled, as he was pulling on his shirt. "There's hardly any balconies that would allow you to jump off and the outside observatory is closed at night and moreover surrounded by glass walls. Arthur is too clever for his own good. If he wants to jump off a tall building, he'll have gone someplace else."

"How can you be this calm about it, Eames?"

"Would it help if I freaked out…? I don't believe that Arthur is trying to kill himself. Somebody else, maybe, but suicide just isn't his style. Besides, he's Catholic, isn't he?"

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"Don't Catholics believe that they'll go straight to hell if they commit suicide?"

"Arthur was raised Catholic, but I doubt that he's actually religious. Besides – he's homosexual, for God's sake, so adding suicide to the list of sins really wouldn't matter…"

"Ah, so you know about that, too," Eames said distractedly, digging through his suitcase.

"What are you doing?"

"Looking for my – ah there it is – looking for my laptop. Listen, I need you to call Arthur so I can track him down. And you have to keep him on the phone for a bit. He doesn't actually have to talk, it's sufficient if he doesn't hang up. Just tell him… anything, I guess."

"Fine, but how come…"

"I bugged his phone during our last job," Eames replied to the unfinished question, whilst staring at the monitor, wishing his laptop would boot faster. "You aren't the only one who worries about Arthur, you know…?"

"Does he know…?"

"That I worry about him? Yes. I told him so. Repeatedly. That I bugged his phone? Hopefully not. Otherwise this won't work. Now call him."

"What shall I tell him? It's got to be something interesting enough to keep him on the phone…"

"Tell him that something's wrong with Ariadne. Arthur likes her, and he sort of feels responsible for her. Not as responsible as you do, but she evokes his big brother complex. Tell him that she drank too much and suffers from alcoholic poisoning. It's more or less credible, because she really drank a bit too much last night. It would be good if you could sound sort of frantic… hell, just imagine Ariadne lying passed out on the floor, if it helps… there… it should work now. Go ahead."

Cobb shook his head as he scrolled down his contact list. "This is never going to work."

"It has to." Eames told him firmly. "I'm not in the mood to scrape Arthur off the pavement."

He watched as Cobb waited for Arthur to pick up the call, his heartbeat accelerating with each passing second. He didn't really believe that Arthur would go as far as to actually commit suicide, it just… well, it _didn't fit_. Arthur was stubborn. Giving up that easily wasn't his style. But that didn't mean that he wasn't able to cause himself harm or get into some serious trouble, especially since alcohol was involved. They had all drunk a bit too much, and some people (Eames himself, Cobb, Yusuf) held their liquor better than others (Arthur, Ariadne).

"Dom?" Apparently, Arthur had checked his caller ID. Cobb had put him on speaker and he sounded rather surprised. "What's the matter…?"

"Where are you?" Cobb blurted out.

Eames scowled at him and mouthed _'Ariadne'_.

Cobb got back on track and added in a somewhat nervous voice: "It's Ariadne… she… passed out. On the floor."

Eames rolled his eyes and prayed that Arthur would take the nervousness and hesitation for signs of worry.

"Oh…" Arthur sounded vaguely interested, but not as upset about the news as Eames would have expected him to be. "Is she alright?"

_Jeez, Arthur, he just told you that she passed out! So obviously, she's not alright…!_

"No, I… I'm afraid not. Yusuf suspects it's the alcohol. We're waiting for the doctor right now, but listen, could you come…?"

Arthur hesitated a moment before replying. "Yes… certainly. I'll be there in a minute."

"Got you," Eames murmured as a bright little dot flared up on the map of the city that spread across his screen. Arthur was apparently only a few blocks away, and now he started to move. Towards them, Eames hoped. He nodded towards Cobb. _'Keep talking', _he mouthed.

He absentmindedly listened to Cobb babbling on about how Ariadne had drunk too much, suddenly passed out in her bathroom and hit her head… Arthur made sympathetic noises, repeated his promise to be there in a minute and sounded generally distracted.

"He should be at the entrance now," Eames murmured, his eyes tracing the little red dot on the map.

Cobb nodded and proceeded to tell Arthur that he felt bad about not having watched Ariadne more closely. He was doing a surprisingly good job at playacting. Eames himself would have readily believed him, had he not known that Ariadne was sleeping peacefully in one of the adjacent rooms.

He moved towards the door, leaving the laptop on the nightstand. Cobb shot him a questioning look.

"We have to catch him at the door to Ariadne's room. Got some explaining to do, don't we?"

"I'm in the elevator," Arthur said. "Is Eames with you? I thought I heard his voice in the background."

"Yes, he's here."

They stepped into the dimly lit hallway. A moment later, they heard the sound of footsteps, dampened by the carpet. Almost unconsciously, Eames breathed an audible sigh of relief, when he saw Arthur round the corner.

"I came as fast as I could," Arthur told them, sounding somewhat out of breath. "What exactly…" He didn't get to finish the question, because Eames chose that very moment to pounce on him, knocking him to the ground in a calculated move and landing on top of him. Arthur gave a startled yelp, his defense reflexes flaring up a moment too late. He managed to hit Eames in the face with his elbow, though.

"Are you crazy?"

"No," Eames replied, panting. His heavier body – he outweighed Arthur by at least twenty-five pounds – gave him an advantage and he effectively pinned the smaller man to the ground. "Take his gun," he instructed Cobb, who had stepped to his side.

"Eames!" Arthur bellowed, struggling and kicking beneath him. "Let. Me. Go! Are you drunk?"

"Only slightly."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cobb straightening, Arthur's weapon in his hand. "I'll keep that for the time being," he said. Eames nodded his agreement.

"What…? What are you doing? What about Ariadne?"

"Ariadne is fine. She's sleeping. We want to keep it that way, so you should really stop shouting. There are quite a few other people staying at this hotel, you know?" Eames slowly moved off, ready to grab Arthur at any moment, even as they both got up.

"If this is one of your stupid jokes…!" Arthur fumed. His face was flushed, his eyes blazing. He looked about ready to hit Eames again, this time purposefully and with better aim.

"It's not," Eames replied quietly. "I think I can take it from here, Dom. Why don't you go back to bed?"

"And leave the two of you alone…? Like hell I will."

Okay, so screw that idea. Eames had hoped that Dom would let him handle this his way, but apparently, he needed to be persuaded…

"Will somebody _please_ explain to me what's going on?" Arthur asked irritably.

"In a minute," Eames replied amiably, before grabbing Arthur by the front of his shirt and pushing – or rather, _slamming_ him with his back into the half opened door to his room. Predictably, the door opened and Arthur stumbled backwards into the room, Eames following behind him. He caught himself, spun around and slammed the door into Cobb's face. It wasn't a very nice thing to do, but Eames figured that he would apologize to him later. As the wood drowned the sounds of Dom's protests, Eames moved past the slightly dazzled and murderously furious looking Arthur to the window. He raised his hand and a small object flew outside and disappeared into the morning twilight.

"What did you just do…?" Arthur asked, sounding very suspicious.

"That was the key. I threw it out of the window," Eames replied complacently.

"You did _WHAT?_"

"Relax, pet. I'm sure the hotel has a spare. They'll get us out of here eventually. But right now, we need to talk. Unless you'd rather have a pillow fight first, that is."

* * *

_This chapter turned out different than I intended. Actually, I wanted Arthur to stand on top of some very tall structure staring down, and a frantic Eames "saving" him by pulling him back… but then I realized that committing suicide by jumping is actually pretty hard to do when you're inside the Burj Khalifa. I've never been there, but from everything I've read, there aren't many opportunities to jump off a balcony or out of a window on one of the upper floors. I don't even know if the windows inside the Armani Hotel open at all, but I couldn't find the information, so I just had Eames throw out the key, figuring that that's covered by "creative freedom" ;)_


	10. Confessions I

"Are you out of your mind?"

Arthur seemed torn between fury and surprise, but Eames was quite certain that the former would outmatch the latter pretty soon. Most people did not take kindly to being tricked and slammed into doors, and Arthur was certainly no exception. Still, Eames couldn't bring himself to feel bad about his actions. In this case, the ends really did justify the means… even though he might be prevailed to change his mind if Arthur decided to strangle him.

"No, but we already established that," Eames replied, both warily and wearily. He was not foolish enough to believe that Arthur was less dangerous merely because Cobb had taken his weapon. Yet in a really warped way, Eames felt quite relieved that Arthur now appeared to be more of a danger to _him_ than to himself.

"In that case, would you mind telling me what this is all about…?" Arthur's voice was now dangerously low and calm. Definitely not a good sign. Eames vastly preferred hot, uncontrolled fury to cold, calculating fury.

"Believe it or not, all I wanted to do with the rest of this night was to get some sleep. I was absolutely not planning on saving your life again or arguing with you… by the way, for some reason, the first always seems to lead to the second… anyway, as I said, I just wanted to rest, but then suddenly Cobb turns up in my bedroom and starts shouting about not knowing where you are and rambling about how you might walk off a rooftop…"

"Why the hell would I do that?" Arthur asked irritably.

"Good question. Actually, it's an excellent question. What were you doing, wandering around by yourself at six o'clock in the morning in a strange city and carrying a gun?"

"That's none of your business."

"Oh, so it's none of my business when your best friend bursts into my room shouting, because he thinks you're suicidal?"

"What…? No! That's nonsense… and Dom wouldn't…"

"Arthur. _He did_. And it scared the living hell out of me, to be frank. I know that Cobb tends to overreact and that he's always suspecting the worst, but he's also the person who knows you best. So when he tells me to get up and help him search for you to prevent you from harming yourself, I do it."

Arthur drew a deep, slightly shaky breath. "I am _not_ suicidal," he said slowly, overarticulating the words.

"Well, great. You know, that would make me feel so much better if I actually believed you. If you were only taking a harmless little walk, then why did you bring your weapon?"

"I always carry a weapon," Arthur snapped, "it's called precaution."

Eames groaned inwardly. He should have known that trying to have this particular conversation with Arthur would be like trying to torture information out of a martyr… completely pointless. Arthur was as slick and slippery as a freshly caught, very much alive eel. If Eames had hoped that he could shock him into being honest with him, he had apparently been mistaken. He let himself drop to the floor, feeling both exhausted and exasperated. The headache was slowly increasing, becoming a dull, persistent throb. A glass of water and some aspirin would have been nice, as would a few hours of untroubled sleep. But Eames knew that he had to sort this mess out first.

Arthur was watching him. Still standing, he looked down on Eames' slumped form with a puzzled frown on his face. "I can't believe Dom thought I would commit suicide," he said slowly. "He should know better…"

"Oh? And how do you expect your friends to guess your motivations, when you keep everything to yourself?" Eames replied sarcastically. "Listen, Arthur, I know that you and Cobb have your little _'don't ask don't tell'_-thing going on. Especially the_ don't tell_-part. And maybe Cobb's fine with that – even though he seemed quite upset just now – but in any case, _I'm not_."

Arthur was silent for a minute or two. Outside, the sun rose slowly across the horizon, unwelcome morning light spilling into the room. Eames idly wondered whether Cobb had gone back to bed or was still pacing back and forth in front of the door.

"What do you want me to do?" Arthur asked quietly, slowly bending down himself, until he ended up on his knees. It was an odd posture, and certainly not a very comfortable one.

"You already asked me that last night." Eames pointed out.

"No, not exactly. Last night, I asked you what you wanted. Since you turned the answer to that into a joke, I'm asking you now what you expect me to do."

Eames raised his head to fully look at him. The fury was gone from Arthur's face, replaced by a mixture of tiredness, resignation and a faint hint of curiosity. "You could start by telling me the truth," he suggested.

"I usually try to avoid that, if at all possible," Arthur replied wryly. "And believe me, it wouldn't make you happy."

"Arthur, in case you hadn't noticed yet – most of things you've done lately didn't make me happy. Any psychiatrist would strongly recommend that I get as far away from you as possible. I suppose, the only reason I still stick around is that I'm a bloody masochist." Eames sighed. "Sometimes I wish I'd never met you."

Arthur looked downright concerned now. "You do?"

Eames looked at him, the sudden insecurity on his face, and decided that consequences be damned, he had to do what he had wanted to do since their conversation the night before: He got up, crossed the small space between them and wrapped his arms around Arthur's slender frame. Hugging someone while kneeling on the floor was slightly awkward, but Eames didn't care.

Arthur gasped, too shocked for any other reaction at first, but to Eames' surprise, he didn't struggle. Maybe he was more exhausted than he let on. Usually, Arthur shied away from physical contact, avoiding it like the plague. The reason for his sudden compliancy became evident quite soon, though.

"I… can't breathe," Arthur choked out, and Eames suddenly became aware of the fact that maybe he was holding on a little too tight. "I'm glad this makes you feel better, but if you end up crushing a couple of my ribs, I promise that I'll make you feel a lot worse," Arthur continued breathlessly.

Eames loosened his grip. "Sorry," he murmured sheepishly.

"Idiot," Arthur huffed. "I may not be suicidal, but I swear that we'll end up killing each other one of these days." He didn't struggle to break free of Eames' grip, though. In fact, he didn't struggle at all. Eames held his breath as he felt Arthur's head drop against his shoulder.

_I never thought I'd see the day… Arthur's in need of a hug and willing to admit it…? Good Lord in heaven…_

"Why did you make Cobb tell me that story about Ariadne?" Arthur asked, his voice slightly muffled. "By the way – she really is okay, isn't she?"

"Yes, she's fine," Eames replied. "I just used her as bait. Appealing to your sense of responsibility for her seemed the safest way to get you back here."

"You're not supposed to be able to manipulate me like that." Arthur said, sounding slightly worried.

"But I am. So what does that tell you about me, pet?" Eames asked, a hint of his usual playfulness returning to his voice.

"That I should get rid of you as soon as possible."

Eames snorted. "Not gonna happen. You're stuck with me, darling." Eames shifted his weight slightly and was surprised when he felt Arthur move with him.

"And you should stop calling me those stupid pet names."

"Never."

Arthur sighed. "But they're embarrassing," he complained.

"Alright. I promise not to call you _'love'_ in front of any of your macho mafia contacts." Eames replied, grinning.

"Actually, you're not supposed to know about that either," Arthur groaned. "Besides… you already did."

"Huh?" Eames mentally ran through all of his dealings with Arthur in the last six months and stopped at the events in Naples. "Wait a minute… are you telling me that _Valentina_ is a mafia contact? Now I'm disappointed. She seemed such a nice lady."

"Trust me; most of the mafia associates I know are capable of maintaining a civilized and quite pleasant conversation. Some of them are actually very charming people… as long as they aren't pointing a gun at you. Besides, Valentina herself is not involved. At least not personally. But her husband and nearly all if his family are, so she involuntarily gets dragged into the business as well."

"Cobb said that you have mafia relations and that it's a family thing… but I can't for the life of me picture Lucia being a mafia member."

"She isn't. It's more of an extended family thing. I've been trying to keep my sister out of it, which has proven to be quite difficult…"

"Ah, so that's what Nico's doing…"

"You've met Nico?"

"It's quite difficult not to, when you want to meet Lucia. He's guarding her every step."

"Yeah, well, Nico is a very loyal fellow. I trust him with my sister's life."

"_You_ trust somebody? Fascinating."

Arthur pushed back slightly to look into his face, noticing the irony in his voice. "Come off it. I trust several people… Dom for example. Or my sister. For some unfathomable reason, I even trust you; even though I'm quite sure I'll come to regret it sooner or later. As for Nico, I trust him because he knows very well that I'll chop him into neat little pieces if anything happens to my sister. And because I know that he'd die for her. Never underestimate the power of unrequited love…"

Eames felt a strange tightness in his chest. "He's in love with her?" He asked as casual as possible.

Arthur nodded. "Since the very first time they met. She knows, by the way. That's why she's always treated him kindly."

"So you're using him," Eames stated.

Arthur shrugged. "He volunteered."

"Oh… well, then I guess it's his own fault…"

Eames felt a sudden connection to the Italian bulldog. Apparently, he wasn't the only one trapped in an impossible situation…

* * *

_Hi folks! Once again, this chapter somehow wrote itself without me getting much of a say in where it was going... it turned out much longer than intended, so I split it in two, and here's part one. By the way, thanks for the lovely reviews (on this chapter and all the others)! Keep them coming! By the way, I'm moving back to Berlin this weekend, so the wait for the next part might be a bit longer. But while you're waiting, you can amuse yourself reading my latest Inception oneshot "Mosquitoes". Or by writing some Inception fics yourself (and if you do, tell me all about it... unless they're Arthur/Ariadne, that is...^^)_


	11. Confessions II

Arthur yawned. "I'd like to return to my own room and get some sleep, but _somebody _chucked the key out of the window."

"Aw, that's just too bad, isn't it, pet?" Eames replied mockingly. "Don't get your hopes up. You're not getting out of here before you've told me what I want to know."

"I rather think I hate you, Eames," Arthur replied darkly.

Eames chuckled. "Sure you do."

"If this is going to be an interrogation, can I at least be comfortable while I spill my secrets?"

"I think that could be arranged," Eames replied amiably. He let go of Arthur, stretched and got up. He walked up to the window, closing it and pulling the curtains to shut out the day. The two small lamps on both sides of the bed were still on and shed a warm, comforting half-light. The bed was still in the same state he had hurriedly left it in when following Cobb out of the room. He drew the blanket back up and straightened the pillows, then settled with his back against the headboard on the right side of the bed and patted the space beside him. Arthur got up, wincing slightly. To Eames' surprise, he took off his vest, and left it neatly folded on one of the chairs, before getting up onto the bed beside him.

"So…" Arthur began. "What do you want to know?"

Eames cocked his head to the side, studying his profile. "Um… everything?"

"That'd be a bit much. Besides, my sister already told you some things, if I'm not mistaken… I can't really forgive her for that, by the way. She went behind my back. What did you do to get her to talk to you?"

"Ah, you know me, I'm just so incredibly charming that no woman can resist me," Eames replied lightly.

"Lucia is no ordinary woman. She's not one of your silly blondes."

"I know. She's your sister, which means that she's probably just as frighteningly smart as you are. I came to ask her questions about you, but I somehow ended up telling her quite a bit more about _me_ than I wanted to."

Arthur smiled a melancholic smile. "That's Lucia for you. I never figured out how she does it, but there is something about that look she gives you that makes it very difficult to keep anything from her."

"I got the feeling that she's not very happy with you, though." Eames said carefully.

Arthur sighed, his smile suddenly gone. "I know. Earlier, before Dom called me… I spoke to her. I called her for the first time in six months. She told me about your visit, about our grandmother, her films, about a meeting with our parents…" He stopped, his face turned away as he swallowed hard.

Eames felt his hand twitch, itching with the desire to touch him, comfort him, but he held back.

"Our father is sick. Cancer. They don't know if it's treatable yet, but they asked Lucia to come and see them. She probably will, she usually spends Christmas with them. She asked our mother if they wanted to see me… she always does, every year, it's something of a ritual."

"And…?"

"They don't." Arthur replied laconically. "I'm not exactly surprised."

"Arthur… how come they treat you like this…?"

Arthur turned to look at him. "I thought Lucia had told you…?"

"Yes, but that doesn't mean I understand it."

"What would your parents do if you had done something similar?"

"I don't have any uncles or aunts, so the question is hypothetical… but I'm sure they wouldn't turn me out of the house and ignore me for twelve bloody years. Mum would probably try to eat me alive; she's got quite a temper. She'd force me to ask God and everybody involved for forgiveness, quite probably on my knees. As for my father… he and I would have a very serious conversation and I'd come out of it at least ten centimeters shorter than before, but he'd eventually forgive me… my father is an easy-going person and he has some experience… considering that my Mum was his best friend's wife at the time of my conception. He effectively ruined their marriage and I think he still feels bad about it."

Arthur hesitated a moment before replying. "I guess you're lucky, then." It sounded rather bitter.

"I suppose I am," Eames agreed. "But at least, Lucia hasn't left you, has she?"

"No, it was the other way around," Arthur murmured. "After I… left home, I didn't bother to contact her for five years. She still hasn't forgiven me for that, I think. I left a teenage girl, and when I met her again, she was twenty years old and living in Venice with our grandmother. I had no idea she'd followed me to Italy, until Salvatore told me that Grandma Maria had contacted him, asking for me… it must have cost her a lot, she hates him passionately. She wouldn't tell him where they were living, so Salvatore sent Stella to find them… and she found them, of course. Stella's like a bloodhound. She turned up on Grandma Maria's doorstep, all dressed in her usual biking gear and fully armed, and I think my grandmother almost had a heart attack. She recovered quickly, though. I think that was the first and only time Stella was beaten by a little old lady. She actually ended up in the canale next to the house… Lucia told me, since both Stella and our grandmother refuse to talk about that incident."

"Your grandmother must be a formidable lady," Eames said, grinning. "By the way… who are Stella and Salvatore…?"

"Stella is Santino's twin sister. He's Valentina's husband. They were the first members of my extended family I met, and they are the ones I like best. Salvatore is… a friend."

"Ah." Eames raised his brows, but decided not to pursue the matter for now.

"Stella used to be my lover," Arthur offered surprisingly.

Eames stared at him. "You're not into women."

Arthur shot him a poisonous look. "That's the exact same thing she told me when I asked her to marry me. She chose a rather inopportune moment for doing so, though. And she _laughed_."

"Ouch. And you're still friends with her? I'm surprised…"

"Stella is… different. In any case, being friends with her is better than the alternative. Healthier, too. And I didn't ask her on a whim. I loved her."

It took Eames a moment to process that information. So there _was_ a rival out there. A more serious rival for Arthur's affection than Gillian, because Arthur had wanted to marry her and loved her, and probably still did.

"You're a strange creature, pet," he said finally. "Why are you so determined to love people you're not supposed to love? I thought Gillian was a one-time mistake, but now I'm beginning to see a pattern."

"Maybe I just want to be normal?" Arthur snapped in return.

Eames rolled his eyes. "Being normal is boring. _Boring_, Arthur. And anyway, there's no chance in hell that you'll ever go back to leading a normal life. Let's see – dreamsharing…? Working with the mafia…? Inception? It's got nothing to do with the fact that you're homosexual, because that, no matter what your parents told you, is quite normal. What's not normal is manipulating people's minds, killing them and being constantly on the run. It's also not normal to try to force yourself to be someone you obviously aren't, because you feel guilty for not fulfilling your parents' expectations."

"I'm not…" Arthur began, but Eames shut him up with a look. "You can't lie to yourself, and you can't lie to your friends. Lucia knows. I know. Cobb knows. Apparently, this Stella figured it out, too. Funnily enough, none of us appears to hold a grudge. Doesn't that strike you as odd? Did it ever occur to you that maybe, we don't have a problem with your sexuality, because each and every one of us cares about you as a person? If you want to worry about going to hell, Arthur, please worry about going to hell for killing people, not for being attracted to men. Besides, I'll be there to keep you company, doesn't that thrill you? I've probably committed just as many deadly sins as you. I'm a thief, a professional gambler, an occasional murderer and I've slept with more people than I can remember. Some of them were male. Some of them were female. Quite a few of them were married – gotta continue the family tradition, no? In any case, God or whoever else is up there hasn't seen it fit to strike me down with lightning yet. Sure, my Mum might yell at me sometimes. And sometimes I feel bad about the things I've done. But I guess as long as I can still enjoy my life, or at least parts of it, I'm okay. I may not be a good person, but then, who is?" He paused, slightly out of breath. He had said more than he'd intended to say, but found himself unable to stop. The words had simply spilled out of him, like water out of a reservoir, after the dam has broken.

He found Arthur looking at him, his expression unreadable. "I still don't know why you're doing is," he said.

"That's because you're being deliberately stupid," Eames replied, slightly exasperated. "And for a person this smart, you're doing a marvelous job at it. But don't worry, you'll figure it out in time." He stifled another yawn. The headache was starting to get on his nerves. Actually, wrapping an arm around Arthur and simply pulling him down with him and going to sleep sounded like a great thing to do right now. Somehow he doubted that Arthur would be okay with that, though.

Arthur continued to look at him, as if trying to read the truth off his face.

_Well, good luck with that_, _pet,_ Eames thought ironically, _if you haven't figured it out by now, I'll probably have to beat you over the head with it one of these days… when I'm less tired. And less scared of your reaction._

He yawned again and stretched out on the bed. "I don't know about you, but I seriously need a nap."

Arthur raised his brows. "You expect me to sleep here? With you?"

"Don't worry; I'm no danger to your chastity right now. I'm much too tired too tired to even think about molesting you. I might snore though. But then, it's not as if you had much choice, is it?"

"I suppose not," Arthur admitted grudgingly. "I'm not particularly keen on calling the management and explaining this mess."

"That's what I thought," Eames murmured.

The last thing he heard before drifting off was Arthur informing him: "If you snore, I'll hit you."

* * *

Apparently, Eames didn't snore, or maybe Arthur was just too tired to notice it; because when Cobb came up to their room around noon after finally having persuaded the management that he really needed that spare key and that his friends wouldn't mind the intrusion, he found both of them fast asleep.

Arthur was curled up in a fetal position, his face surprisingly peaceful. For once, he looked his true age instead of ten years older, and Dom felt a sudden surge of tenderness towards his difficult friend.

Eames, on the other hand, slept like he always did, sprawling and spread out, taking up much more space than he should have, but his face was half buried in Arthur's dark hair, and for some reason, neither of them seemed to mind… Dom idly wondered what Arthur would do when he woke up and found them in such a state. Probably smack Eames in the face… oh well. There was enough time to worry about that later…

Ariadne, having recovered from her hangover thanks to Yusuf's super-secret hangover-cure (he would know all about that, Dom suspected), had gone out with Sakura and Saito, who were both infuriatingly well rested and cheerful. Yusuf was working on something in his room, and Dom prayed that he wouldn't blow it up or poison somebody in the process.

He quietly moved a bit further into the room and put the spare key on the bedside table. Then he turned off the lights and moved out of the room, adding a _'do-not-disturb'_ sign to the door for good measure.

He proceeded back to his own room, having decided to call his children. If a wistful smile was on his face as he crossed the corridor then, well, he would keep the reason for that to himself…

* * *

_Hi everyone, I'm back. I apologize for the long wait. Moving cross-continents is a bitch. Especially, when you move into a newly renovated appartment and discover that there's still quite a bit of renovating left to do... on the other hand - at least I don't have Arthur's problems, right? ^^ Hope you still enjoy the story._


	12. A Family Visit

"I hate airports," Eames muttered, moodily stirring this coffee.

Arthur looked up from his book, giving him an annoyed look. "Stop whining. You wanted to come along, so it's entirely your own fault that you're here."

"Yes, but that was before I knew that the stupid French ground staff would be striking again and delaying all the flights! Those people never work! I wish we were in Germany or Switzerland, or someplace else you can actually trust people to do what they are supposed to do," Eames complained.

"Better get used to it," Arthur recommended. "We're going to Italy after all."

"If we ever get there," Eames murmured darkly. Then his face lit up a little. "Say, pet – being half Italian, how on Earth did you end up being such an overzealous workaholic?"

Arthur shrugged. "Good American upbringing, I suppose. What did I tell you about calling me those names…?"

Eames rolled his eyes. "Hey, I only promised not to embarrass you in front of your mafia friends. But we're still in France, and apart from you, there aren't any Mafiosi around. Therefore, I can still call you those names."

"Why, oh why did I agree to this?" Arthur wondered aloud. "It's dangerous, it's foolish and you're already getting on my nerves."

"Because everybody needs friends and people he can trust, darling. Even you," Eames replied earnestly. "Oh look, they're finally opening the counter. Maybe we'll get out of here, after all."

* * *

Eames spent half of their flight to Palermo writing a postcard to his sister Katie and the other half flirting with the attractive curly haired flight attendant and watching Arthur get all annoyed about it. So in short, he had fun.

"Won't your other siblings get jealous if you only write to one of your sisters?" Arthur asked.

Eames shook his head. "Nah. Philipp's got other things on his mind right now than his big brother and Julia knows I love her best."

"You actually have a favorite sister?"

"Sure. She's the most sensible one of the lot. Of course, she's the big sister, so she has to be."

"Huh. I always thought you were the eldest."

"I'm the little bastard, remember? Julia was born before my Dad came along and ruined the marriage. She's thirty-seven, but nobody's allowed to mention her age and she hates birthdays."

"So she is actually your half-sister, because you and the two younger ones have a different father?"

"Not quite. We've got an interesting family history, darling. Actually, Julia is the child of Mum's first husband, then she had an affair with my father, and then her second husband came along. Katie and Phil are his kids. That's why they're so much younger. We all have different last names, it drives everybody crazy. Julia got Mum's maiden name after the divorce, I actually have my Dad's name, Phil's got his father's name and Katie took her husband's when she got married last year. That's why everybody started calling me by my last name, it's a family joke. Except Mum of course. She insists on using my given name. But then, she also calls Katie _Katherine_."

"And I thought my family was strange," Arthur murmured.

"Well, we don't have any mafia connections," Eames replied brightly.

"You have to bring that up at every possible opportunity, don't you?"

"Come on, pet, it's cool. Besides, that's why we're going to Italy, isn't it? By the way, are they picking us up at the airport?"

"I suppose so. I don't know who'll be there yet, but Stella said she would try… which means that Santino is going to be there, too. Don't be alarmed when you meet them."

"I'm not your grandmother. I'm actually capable of appreciating a woman in a biker's outfit. Especially when she has a nice butt."

"Well, don't appreciate her too much, or Santino might shoot you. He's very protective of his sister."

"But he didn't shoot you?"

"No, but he tried to stab me once, drown me twice and run me over with a car three times. Even though the third time might have been an accident, I'm not quite certain. Stella _persuaded_ him to leave me alone eventually."

"Gee, and you're actually friends with those people…?"

Arthur shrugged. "They grow on you, if you survive long enough to get to know them better."

* * *

They arrived in Palermo two hours later than they had planned and no leather-clad amazon was waiting for them. Arthur seemed faintly disappointed, but Eames felt relieved. He wasn't particularly keen on meeting Stella Santangelo.

Instead, a lean, dark haired man suddenly appeared at their side out of nowhere. He had messy black hair with the first hints of grey sprinkled in-between and a somewhat dreamy face.

"Emmanuele," Arthur greeted him and the man smiled.

"_Benvenuto a casa, Arthur._"

He waved them towards the exit and they followed him to a parking lot.

Emmanuele drove in silence, either he wasn't very talkative to begin with, or thought it impolite to speak to Arthur in Italian while Eames was there. Eames suspected the former, though. They drove for about half an hour, before Emmanuele started fidgeting in his seat. Finally, he stopped at the side of the road. He exchanged a few sentences with Arthur.

"He wants to blindfold both of us," Arthur explained, dangling a couple of dark blue rags in front of Eames' nose. He frowned, apparently not happy with the safety measure. "That's new."

He turned back to Emmanuele, who merely shrugged apologetically, muttering "Antonio", as if that explained everything. Apparently it did, because Arthur rolled his eyes. "I should have guessed that… alright then, lets humor Antonio…"

He handed Eames one of the rags and taking the other.

"That is so Hollywood," Eames commented mirthfully while putting on his blindfold.

"I know," Arthur replied. "Antonio has been watching the wrong movies."

Eames chuckled.

"_Contento?_" Arthur asked Emmanuele.

"_Sì_."

* * *

Emmanuele allowed them to take off their blindfolds – which he hadn't checked by the way, it would have been easy enough to cheat – as soon as he had stopped the car again. Eames looked around as they got out of the car. They were standing in the graveled courtyard of what look for all appearances like a large, old farmhouse. There were even a couple of buildings to the side that could have been stables and down the hill; Eames caught sight of a vineyard and an orchard.

"So your fabled mafia boss lives on a farm," he teased.

Arthur shrugged. "These days, he prefers the peace and quiet out here, and in his position, he can make people come and see him. He has no need to travel, there are lots of people at his beck and call.

"_È in giardino,_" Emmanuele said, before disappearing into one of the stable buildings.

"Not a very sociable fellow, is he?" Eames asked.

Arthur ignored the comment and moved to the left, rounding the house. Eames followed him and they stepped into a well-kept garden, surrounded by little stone walls and overshadowed by two great old apple trees. It was still warm enough to sit outside, and the old man sitting in a wooden lawn chair, reading a leather bound book appeared to be enjoying the sun. A small black dog lay at his feet and in the vicinity, a woman sat on a stone bench, knitting. Somewhere in the house, another woman was singing, her voice muffled but audible.

The old man looked up when he heard them approaching. He had a tanned, weathered face covered in many wrinkles and laugh lines. He did not look the part of an intimidating mafia boss.

He slowly got up to great them, his movements slightly stiff after sitting for too long in one position. He smiled at both of them, holding out his hands to Arthur, who took them rather stiffly and immediately afterwards found himself drawn into a hug. The old man said something that Eames didn't catch, but Arthur frowned as he broke free.

"So," the old man said in heavily accented English. "This is your friend, yes? Welcome to my house."

Eames inclined his head. "Thank you." Apparently, there was no need for introductions. When he looked up, he saw that the woman had retreated into the house.

"Where is everyone?" Arthur asked.

"Ah…" the old man waved a vague hand. "Here and there. Stella was waiting for you at the airport, Arthur, but when you did not come, she decided that she had better things to do and left again. It is not nice, letting a woman wait. Not smart, either."

"I'll apologize to her later."

"You do that. Bring her flowers."

"Stella hates flowers."

"_Macché!_ Every woman likes flowers." He paused a moment before adding. "It is good to have you home with us again. You should come more often. Family is important, Arthur."

Eames, who had been looking back and forth between them, decided that this was the right time to ask a question that bothered him. "Hold on a second – how closely are the two of you related…?"

Arthur raised his brows, apparently not amused. "Whatever gave you the impression that we are?"

Once again, Eames looked from him to the old man and back. "I know that appearances can be deceiving, lo- Arthur… but there _is _a certain family resemblance between the two of you. In fact, he looks like he could be your Dad."

The old man smiled again, and a ring of laugh lines appeared around his dark eyes, giving his weathered face a thoroughly innocent grandfatherly look. "It is not that close," he replied, and once again Eames noticed that his English, though heavily accented, was actually quite good. "He is my grandnephew, the grandson of my older brother. We were four brothers – Dominic, who was the oldest, Giacomo – that's your grandfather," he nodded at Arthur, "me and Gaetano. And then there were the girls – well, still are, in case of your great-aunts Alessia and Elena. They are formidable women now, and you would not want to cross them. Giulia died last summer, though." He looked at the two younger men, shaking his head with a wry smile. "Forgive me. Family history and family gossip become all the more important to you, the older you get. Speaking of family, Arthur – do tell me about your sister. I watched her latest movie with half a dozen of the boys, and they were plastered to the screen. She's a pretty one, Lucia. First actress in the family, as far as I can tell."

"I do hope you did not tell anyone that she is family," Arthur replied, a frown disfiguring his handsome face.

The old man huffed and waved a vague hand. "Of course not, since you forbid me to do so. I would sure have liked to show her off as my grandniece, but I gave you my word. You are keeping your side of the bargain admirably, so I am keeping mine in return. How is little Nico holding up? He must be getting bored with nothing to do up there. But then, he gets to be around a beautiful woman day and night, so maybe it isn't that bad." Another one of those whimsical smiles. Eames felt sure that he would have started to like the old guy by now, had he not seen the tension in Arthur's posture that wouldn't subside, no matter how many of those smiles were cast his way.

"_Little_ Nico?" Eames put in, making an incredulous face. "Wait – are we talking about the hulking guy guarding Lucia's doorstep, who looks about ready to wrestle down a bull?"

The old man chuckled. "Well, _I_ knew him when he was just a little boy, playing in the mud with the other children. He is the youngest son of Malena Bertani, Renata's mother… you do remember Renata, don't you Arthur?"

"She is married to Antonio? Or was it Federico…?"

"Federico. You have been out of touch for a while, haven't you? Not remembering your cousin's names?"

"Well, seeing that there are about three dozen of them…"

"Federico is Giulia's younger son. Antonio is his elder brother, he's married to Nuria, they have two little boys and a girl."

"Talking about little girls," Arthur cut the ramblings of his great-uncle short, "did you know that there was a twin sister of little Giulio?"

The old man blinked, apparently taken by surprise. "In my dealings with Gabriele, there was only talk of the boy. I did not know that Sara had _two_ children."

"Well, in fact she has four, but only Giulio and his sister are also children of your son. Maybe Gabriele neglected to mention her, because he thought you were only interested in the boy."

"Is she alive?"

Arthur nodded.

"Then I'm interested. What is her name?"

"Alessandra."

"You will get her for me." It was a calm statement, not a direct order, but definitely not a question either.

Arthur didn't seem too surprised, but none too pleased either. "Gabriele will not give her up willingly. Especially not now."

"In that case, he will give her up unwillingly," the old man replied, shrugging. "I will send some of your cousins with you. Are you staying?"

Arthur shook his head.

"Then tell me where they will find you."

"Gabriele is currently living near Siena, whenever he is not away on business, because his wife is from that area and refuses to leave. She is twenty years younger than him, and he seems very eager to please her. Chances are that he is keeping Alessandra with him. She is definitely not staying with Sara and the other children. I will meet whichever cousins you send in Siena, the first Saturday of December. Since they are all good Catholics, they will have no objections against meeting me in the cathedral around noon."

His great-uncle cast him a wry look. "They might not. But maybe the master of the house would voice some objections…? I wonder, Arthur…" His eyes ghosted to Eames, who had a sudden suspicion that the old man knew a lot more about Arthur's private life than Arthur himself was willing to admit. He certainly was perceptive; you had to give him that.

Arthur shrugged "He's accepted enough men with bloody hands into his houses. I doubt there is even one of my sins that would stir his curiosity."

* * *

_Hi everyone, thank you for those wonderful reviews on the last chapter! I apologize to Kiraling and everybody else who wanted to see Arthur's reaction to waking up and finding Eames snuggling up to him. You will get to read that scene as a flasback a couple of chapters from now._


	13. Arguments

"I take it that you are not a good Catholic?" Eames asked teasingly when they were on their way back.

"No." Arthur kept his eyes on the road, but the way his hands clenched around the wheel told Eames everything he needed to know.

"Imagine that. That was a short visit, by the way. Wouldn't you rather have stayed for dinner with the family, like he asked you to?"

"The fact that they're family doesn't mean that I get along with _all_ of my cousins," Arthur replied, tight-lipped. It had started to rain and heavy drops of water were splashing against the windshield.

"I see. That Antonio for example…?"

"For example."

The road was quickly turning slippery, and Arthur had to concentrate on his driving, so Eames decided to let the matter rest for now.

"Huh. So that was Salvatore Santangelo," he mused, changing the topic. "He is an interesting person. Seems a little too pleasant for a mafia boss, though."

"Don't let his charming personality fool, you. He's got another one that isn't nearly as affable."

"I take it that you've met that other side of his?"

"Often enough to regret bringing you into this at all," Arthur replied, the frown on his face audible in his voice.

"Awww, are you worrying about my safety, pet? I'm touched," Eames teased, but there was some truth to the words, anyway. Arthur _was_ worried, and he _was _touched by it. Maybe he should have been worried, too, but he justified his lack of caution by reminding himself that Arthur gave him preciously little to nourish his hopes and that he had to grasp onto every little straw.

"I just don't want your untimely death on my conscience," Arthur huffed, "it's troubled enough as it is."

"And here was me thinking that you cared about me," Eames pouted.

To his surprise, Arthur turned slightly to meet his eyes for a fraction of a minute, before he turned back to face the road again. The movement came accompanied by an even more astonishing statement: "I do, and I shouldn't. In any case, it's no reason to gloat. People I care about have a tendency to get hurt."

"I already took a bullet for you," Eames reminded him cheerfully, "so how much worse can it get?"

"I'd rather not answer that," Arthur replied gloomily, effectively ruining Eames' sudden good mood.

"I always thought Cobb was a worrywart, but you almost make him look like an optimist, darling," he complained. "The world is not all bad and hostile, you know."

"Yes, I know, there are flowers and kittens and happy endings. There are little girls like Philippa who believe in them, and little boys like James who think Santa Claus is real. But I know that when I raise my gun and shoot somebody, he's dead and doesn't get up again. Or he isn't, and in that case, I am dead. Most likely. I know that Gabriele Ajala had the son of his niece killed merely to spite an old enemy. A little boy, maybe three or four years old. His name was Giulio. And now Salvatore is sending me to get his sister, not because he fears for the girl's safety, but because he wants to teach Gabriele a lesson. And she might very well die in the process, if she isn't dead yet. Do you expect me to rejoice at the fact that at the end of the day, it might be her blood on my hands?"

Eames was startled by this sudden outbreak and remained silent for a minute or two, trying to find an answer to _that_. He saw Arthur's fingers clench around the wheel, saw him swallow hard. He seemed upset, maybe even angry. Eames could hardly blame him, but he also couldn't help but notice that Arthur's mood swings kept getting more erratic, and his moods darker. Once again, he wondered where this journey would take them, and for the first time he felt anxious.

Nevertheless… "I'll go with you."

"No, you won't," Arthur replied in that quiet, no-nonsense tone that held an edge of warning.

Eames rolled his eyes. _Don't ask for help, if you're not willing to accept it, darling…_  
"You could try to stop me, I suppose. But since I already know where, when, what and who, it'll be quite difficult, unless you're planning on tying me to the bed."

"I could just put another bullet through your shoulder," Arthur said.

"That would defeat the purpose. If you don't want me to go there, because you don't want me to get hurt, hurting me yourself would be paradoxical."

"Everybody loves a paradox," Arthur replied, shrugging. "Besides – I don't want you to get killed. I have no problem with you getting hurt, or doing it myself."

"Now _that hurt_." Eames said, and he meant it.

"You'll live. If you want cuddly, sympathetic company, go find Ariadne. I never asked you to follow me around, and I don't know why you're doing it anyway."

Eames felt about ready to cry out in frustration, or maybe strangle Arthur, but neither would have solved his problem. This infuriating problem that was sitting right next to him, in all his splendid, cold, unreachable and_ unbelievably dense_ glory.

"I hate you," he said emphatically, because in that moment, it was true.

Arthur turned to throw him an irritated look. "So shoot me. Because that's what people usually do when they hate somebody. They most certainly don't risk their life for the person they hate and attach themselves to him like a third leg. What…? Why are you looking at me like that, it's true!"

"I can't figure out what I want more right now – to kill you or to kill myself," Eames replied between gritted teeth.

"Here's an astonishing idea: how about you just leave me alone…?"

Eames remained silent for a long moment, weighing his answer, before replying: "You're not the only one with a conscience, Arthur."

* * *

The rest of the trip passed silently, and it was an uncomfortable silence. They switched transports – car, airplane, car – and Eames was glad when they finally arrived in Rome. It was past midnight, and they hadn't had a real dinner, but for some reason he didn't feel hungry, and the prospect of sitting across a table from Arthur did not seem very appealing right now.

He grabbed his bag and started to look for directions. Arthur's quiet question caught him off guard. "Where are you going?"

"To find a place to sleep. Where else would I be going at this hour? I know a hotel from a job I did a couple of years ago. It's quiet and they serve you a decent breakfast… but then of course, the owner is British…" He added with a lopsided smile.

Arthur shook his head. "Commenting on that would just lead to another argument… but you could stay with me. That is, if you think you'll survive my taste in breakfast."

Eames stared at him. Arthur would never cease to surprise him… here was the invitation he had been dreaming about for months, maybe years, and it came on the heels of their worst disagreement so far. Weird? No, not at all…

"Eames?" Arthur asked, shifting his weight. Either he was nervous, or eager to get out of the airport. Eames was betting on the latter.

"I… you just caught me by surprise, pet. I simply didn't expect to be invited after you told me to get lost. Talk about paradoxical behavior…"

Arthur shrugged. "It sort of makes sense. I have a two-bedroom apartment here, and if you stay with me, I don't have to go looking for you tomorrow. Besides, I was trying to be nice."

"Keep practicing," Eames advised, suppressing a grin. "Okay, I guess I'll accept. Thank you. You sure you can _tolerate_ me that close-by?"

"Come off it," Arthur huffed, "I've slept in the same bed as you, I think I'll be able to share my flat with you. Can we cut this discussion short, please? I'm tired."

"Sure. Lead the way."

* * *

Arthur's apartment was in Trastevere, on the fourth and top floor of a house that even in the dark looked older than any Eames had ever lived in. Eames idly wondered, how often Arthur stayed here, how many of those apartments he had, scattered across the globe, and whether or not he considered any of them his home.

He had expected to see an impersonally and practically furnished space; a place to stop by from time to time, but not to linger… but when they entered, he was surprised. Arthur softly closed the large, wooden door behind them, turned on the light and Eames was free to look around. An obviously antic chandelier hung from the high ceiling of the living area, illuminating the scenery. The furniture was old, heavy and slightly battered, all dark, undecorated wood. The floor was wooden, too, but most of it was covered by a lush white and grey carpet that softened all steps to a barely audible sound. A table surrounded by four chairs was covered with a white cloth and atop of it sat an empty silver bowl and a stack of papers.

And then there were the drawings. Eames counted fourteen of them, the fifteenth, unfinished one lay atop the stack of papers on the table. They were all the same large format, all done in pencil, even though several of them held a set of notes, numbers or a schematic done in ink somewhere to the side. He walked closer to study them. From afar, they looked like the work-drawings of an architect, something he would do to explain his vision to a prospective investor. But a closer look revealed them as the work of an artist.

Something about those pictures struck Eames as odd, and yet the oddity was strangely familiar. Something was off, but he had seen that something before. It took him a couple of minutes and a walk around the room, glancing at each drawing, to figure out what it was: none of these could have been constructed in the real world. It started with tiny things, but once you saw it, you detected a pattern of flaws, flaws that made the buildings unreal, but all the more beautiful. Angles were off, pillars to thin to carry the weight put upon them, the stairs had neither beginning nor end, and the domes would crush the buildings that carried them. They could never exist in the real world… but in dreams they would thrive and form entire cities of haunting, surreal beauty. And in that moment, Eames knew that Arthur himself was the artist, and the reason the drawings looked so familiar became evident.

They were incredibly complicated. Part of their beauty lay in the fact that they were unreal, or more than real, but the other part was due to the intricacy, the loving attention to detail that the artist had lavished upon them. It was hard to imagine that a human mind could dream up such creations, but to ban them on paper, make them visible to others…! Arthur had bared his soul in drawing them, and he had bared his soul to Eames, who felt like a wide-eyed intruder.

"Are you alright?" Arthur's voice drifted across the white, cloudy space in Eames' mind.

Eames opened his mouth and breathlessly voiced the first thought that would agree to be put into words. "You are amazing."

It probably sounded quite odd to anyone but himself, but it was exactly what he felt.

"Right," Arthur said slowly, a line of confusion showing on his front, "let me show you your bedroom." He sounded faintly embarrassed. Eames smiled.

* * *

_So... I guess right now, all of you are busy doing your last minute Christmas shopping ;) Nevertheless, if you have the time to stop by and read this, I would absolutely love it if you could linger a moment longer and drop me a short review! (Think of it as a Christmas present to me...^^)_

_Trastevere, by the way, is one of Rome's old quarters. I like it, and I would kill for an apartment like Arthur's...  
_


	14. Nightmares

_Hi everyone! Thank you for your wonderful reviews on the last chapter, they made me deliriously happy! _

_I thought I'd leave you a little Christmas present, before I depart on vacation tomorrow. Enjoy!_

* * *

Once again, Eames walked through a dream city. It was not Venice, nor any other city he had ever been to, and he felt quite certain that this city did not have a mirror image or even a shadow in the real world. It was the most complicated maze he had ever seen, so beautiful that he was tempted to shut his eyes, because he could not take it, couldn't quite grasp the concept of such ephemeral beauty. It made Ariadne's latest Bauhaus crossovers look like the works of a small child, one-dimensional, plain, boring, even ugly.

He was walking across very fine, silverish sand, and all the buildings gleamed white in the sunlight. Suddenly, he heard steps behind him. Soft steps. Muffled by sand or carpet… because it wasn't really sand beneath his feet, it was a thick, soft white carpet, spreading endlessly in all directions.

"What are you doing in my dream, Eames?"

Arthur. For some strange reason, he was wearing an all-white tennis outfit, but no shoes. It was quite ridiculous. Arthur didn't even play tennis. The earphones of his i-Pod curled loosely around his neck, like a white string. Eames wanted to rip them of, lest they strangle him. Instead, he asked: "Why are you listening to Mozart?"

"That was the wrong question," Arthur replied with an apologetic shrug and pulled a gun out from nowhere, preparing to shoot Eames.

"Wait!" Eames protested. "You can't shoot me!"

"Why not?" Arthur looked confused.

"Because I love you."

Again, Arthur shrugged. "Okay." The gun disappeared. "Kiss me," he demanded, and Eames did. In the dream, Arthur's lips were incredibly soft and he tasted like raspberries. In reality, Eames sat up straight in his bed, because somebody was screaming his ears off. The scream ebbed away before he was fully awake, so he didn't know whether it had been real or part of his somewhat psychedelic dream. He sat in the darkness, listening. At first there were no sounds but the soft patter of rain against the window, but then he heard the echo of another sound.

Sobbs. Very soft, dimmed by a set of doors, and he wouldn't have heard them but for the quiet of the night.

_There is somebody else inside the apartment_, he thought, because the obvious explanation seemed just too farfetched. Arthur didn't cry. Not even in the silent hours between midnight and the beginning of a new day. Eames had never seen Arthur cry and doubted he could.

And such sounds…! They were a child's, or a wounded animal's plea… Help me. Help me.

Eames shuddered. He _had_ to look. Nobody could listen to this and not feel compelled to find out what was happening, to help, to comfort. Slowly, his movements still sluggish with sleep, he got up. He was only wearing loosely fitting pajama pants, no shirt. It had gotten lost awhile ago, forgotten in some hotel room or other, somewhere in the world like a piece of flotsam, and so far, he hadn't bothered to replace it. Barefooted, he walked across the softly creaking floorboards, found the handle of the door, pushed it open.

The living room was quiet and almost completely dark. As the centerpiece of the apartment, it was surrounded by the two bedrooms, small kitchen and bathroom and therefore had no windows of its own. Stumblingly, Eames felt his way to the other side, hit the table, cursed under his breath and continued, until he felt the cool smoothness of wood beneath his fingers.

He cocked his head to the side, listening. The crying had stopped. All was quiet again but for the faint splashing of raindrops against glass. For a brief moment, he wondered if he had only imagined the sounds. But they didn't fit his dream…

The door opened soundlessly and almost against his will. A little pressure had been sufficient, and he half fell into the room. Arthur's _bedroom_. Under different circumstances, this could have been fun. Right now, it was just awkward. _And if you did imagine those sounds, what are you going to tell him? _a voice in his head wondered.

The dim light of a small bedside lamp cast an eerie glow on tangled white linen and the pale skin of the man who sat huddled in the middle of the bed, looking like the only survivor of a shipwreck. He sat as far away from the edges as possible, as if he expected monsters to come crawling out from beneath. He was hugging his knees, and Eames saw convulsive shudders run through his lithe body.

_He's hurt!_ his mind screamed at him. _He is in pain, injured, maybe sick. Maybe somebody snug into the apartment while you slept and hurt him…_

It was a foolish thought. Arthur was the most careful person he knew. He would never be ambushed or attacked in his own apartment.

Nevertheless, Eames could see that something was very, very wrong with him, and he was dying to know what, and what he could do to stop it. "Arthur?" he asked softly, afraid to scare him. Arthur's head jolted up. His face was wet with sweat and maybe tears, it was impossible to tell for sure from this distance. His dark hair was tousled, messier than Eames had ever seen it.

"Go away." His voice sounded choked.

Eames huffed indignantly. _As if…!_ "Not on your life, pet. Not before you've told me what's the matter with you. Are you in pain? Are you hurt?"

Arthur gave no answer, but Eames noticed that his tensed muscles were slowly relaxing a bit, and that his breathing had begun to calm. The seizure, or whatever it was, had apparently passed. He repeated his questions, advancing slowly, as if he was trying to approach a hurt animal. Past experience had taught him to exercise extreme caution when Arthur did not want to be touched. He was likely to hit Eames, and his aim was usually flawless. He knew exactly where it hurt most.

"What happened?" Eames asked in what he hoped was a low, soothing tone of voice.

"It's none of your business." Arthur turned away, avoiding his gaze.

"You were screaming your lungs out. People don't usually do that without a reason."  
_Not to mention the crying…  
_He was almost close enough to touch Arthur now.

"It's nothing." Arthur mumbled. "Go back to bed."

Eames looked down at him. There were no visible injuries, no blood, he noted with great relief. He could smell sweat now, a faint odor of panic. He looked around. No weapons in sight. Okay… make that no _visible_ weapons. Arthur probably slept with a gun beneath his pillow. Eames just hoped that he wouldn't get shot, stabbed or otherwise maimed for his next move.

He edged closer, then reached out and caught Arthur in an awkward embrace. Predictably, Arthur fought back, but his protest was weaker than Eames had expected. He seemed shaken, exhausted. And despite the sweat on his front, his body felt too cold. "Stop fighting me, I'm not going to hurt you."

"Don't touch me!", Arthur hissed. Eames ignored him.

"Tell me what happened."

Arthur fidgeted, but eventually, he gave up. Either he was preparing for a more effective counter-attack, or he had realized that it was pointless. Then: "Nightmares."

Eames stared down at him, so surprised that he loosened his grip for a moment. Arthur used that moment to break free. _Are you serious?_ Eames wanted to ask, but the look on Arthur's face told him the truth.

"Nightmares…", he replied slowly, frowning. "You've been working in the dream business for how long now, pet? Ten years? You shouldn't be able to dream on your own anymore." It was the curse that hit them all, sooner or later. That caused some of them to go mad, while the rest tried to compensate in whichever way they could find… by going deeper into the dream world, by drowning their fears and the strange emptiness of their sleep in alcohol, drugs, sex… Eames even knew a former extractor who now lived as a Buddhist monk, spending his days in meditation.

"I know!" It sounded angry. "I know that I'm not _supposed_ to dream anymore, but I do. But not normal dreams that you forget once you are fully awake; it's always nightmares. A good night is a night _without_ dreams. I… they haunt me. Even when I'm awake. They are always with me, like my own personal piece of hell I'm carrying around with me, and who knows, maybe it's a punishment… God knows they've gotten worse…" His voice ebbed away in something that sounded dangerously close to a sob. Eames was shaken by this sudden, violent eruption.

It made sense, thought. A lot of things were beginning to make sense now. The mood swings. Erratic behavior. The sudden outbursts.

"Do you get them every night…?" He barely dared to ask.

"No." Arthur ran a hand over his face, pushing sweaty strands of hair away. "They come and go. It's usually several nights in a row, a week, maybe two. Then something happens, and they go away… for a while. But they always come back."

"_Two weeks?_ How long have you gone without a good night's sleep, Arthur?"

Arthur sighed. "About a week now."

"Jesus. It's a wonder you're still on your feet." Eames was appalled, yet… what could you do against nightmares? "Is there nothing that helps? Medication…?"

"Alcohol just makes them worse. I've tried, believe me, I've tried. And I won't take sleeping pills. As it is, I can at least wake up… on medication, I might not be able to do that…" He sounded scared.

Eames had the overwhelming urge to hug him, but tried to resist. Arthur was serious about not wanting to be touched.

"What are they about?" he asked quietly. "What do you dream?"

"Blood, gore and general violence," Arthur replied, his voice laced with a bitter sarcasm, sharp enough to cut glass.

"You dream about your own death?" Eames asked, appalled. He had dreamed about something like that once. Ages ago, as a teenage boy. It had scared to living hell out of him.

"Not mine, but everybody else's. And usually, I'm the one responsible for it. I've seen my sister die a hundred times in those dreams, my parents, my friends… even people I barely know. What I told you…" – he swallowed hard – "what I told you yesterday, that I care about you…? I know, because you started appearing in those dreams. They usually end with you dead."

Eames stared at him. _He dreams about me dying…?_ "They are just dreams…" he began.

Arthur shook his head. He looked terribly lost and forlorn. "No, you don't understand. People die and it's my fault. It's not only the dreams… there's a reason I stay away from Lucia and my grandmother. There's a reason I rarely visit Dom's kids anymore. There's a reason I push away Ariadne when she tries to be my friend. People get hurt because of me. Even when I'm not the one holding the gun."

"Arthur…" Eames began, but Arthur interrupted him, silenced him with a sharp shake of his head and a burning glance.

"I killed the first man I loved. I threw him down the stairs, he broke his neck. I heard him scream. I heard Aunt Katherine scream, and Wendy, and Rose… and he was only the first. The most personal murder I committed. The rest were mostly professional. A shot from the dark. Sometimes right in the face, sometimes in the chest, watching them gasp and their eyes grow wide… sometimes quick and clean, sometimes messy. I never torture them, I've never had to, in order to get information… I told Salvatore I would not, that I am not Antonio… he doesn't care, as long as the job gets done. In the end, it doesn't matter, though. I am no better than Antonio. Maybe I'm worse. He has no conscience that tells him what he does is wrong. He just obeys orders, does what has to be done. I work on my own, and I know it's wrong. I _deserve_ those dreams. Every single one of them." He was out of breath when he finished his monologue. Eames was still staring at him. Arthur's role in the entire mafia business now became clear. Eames was neither surprised, nor particularly shocked. He had known that Arthur had killed before. The ease which with he did it in the dream world indicated real life practice.

"Most of us have killed, Arthur. I have killed people…"

"In self-defense!" Arthur spat. "And how many, two, three…?"

"Five. And yes, it was self-defense. That doesn't change the fact that I took their lives."

"But you didn't plan on killing them. You did it to preserve your own life. It's natural, everybody wants to survive… what I did isn't. _That's _why I see their faces in the dreams, and why I dream about others dying, too. You can't destroy lives without some form of retribution…"

"I don't think God is punishing you, darling. Maybe it's because I am an agnostic, but in my opinion, you are doing this to yourself. It's because you're _not_ a bad person. If you were, you wouldn't care. If you had no conscience, it wouldn't torment you and haunt your dreams. Actually, I suspect that if you weren't Catholic, you'd have probably put a gun to your temple by now."

Arthur gave a harsh, humorless laugh. "I'm going to hell anyway; suicide wouldn't really make a difference."

"It would… for your grandmother and Lucia." Eames locked gazes with him. "Am I right?"

Reluctantly, Arthur nodded.

"See…? You care about them. Very much. And you will do everything to keep them safe… even kill for Salvatore Santangelo, even when it rips you apart." He put his hands on Arthur's shoulders and felt him flinch. "This is probably going to sound incredibly silly, darling, but you need to stop. You need to stop working for him. You need to stop killing for him. If you want to be able to sleep an untroubled sleep again, you need to get rid of the gun beneath your pillow."

"They'll die if I leave." Arthur stated.

Eames sighed. "Then you need to figure out a way to get rid of him without endangering them. You're smart Arthur, exceptionally smart; you'll come up with something. But in order to do that, you need to be alert and fully awake, and not sleep deprived and exhausted."

"Then it seems that I am at an impasse," Arthur replied cynically.

"Maybe." He paused for a moment. "Have you ever tried using the passive device to help you sleep untroubled?"

"It's too dangerous. Going under when I'm alone…"

"And you trust nobody enough to keep them around while you sleep," Eames finished the thought for him. "That's why you got so upset when I locked us into the room in Dubai."

"Well, that was a stupid thing to do," Arthur said, his brows furrowing.

Eames shrugged. "It worked… in a way. You know, I could monitor you while you go under. The only problem is, I know you don't trust me, either."

"And that surprises you?" Arthur huffed.

Eames chuckled. "Okay, point taken. And I'm sorry for slamming you against a door." He got up. "You should think about it, though. Maybe it _would_ help."

"No, I don't think so." He felt Arthur's eyes on him, as he slowly moved towards the door. Reaching for the handle, he turned again. "I would say _'sleep well'_, but it sounds a bit cynical, so…"

"Stay."

Just one word, one syllable. Eames' eyes widened in surprise. It made no sense, why did he…

"Are you…?"

"I'm asking you to stay," Arthur repeated, over-enunciating the words. "What do you want me to say, that I'm afraid of the dark? I am. I'm frightened."

Eames let go of the door handle and took a step towards him. "But you don't trust me," he pointed out, "and you hate people touching you, but if I stayed here, I would certainly do that. This bed is too small for the two of us to sleep in without touching each other. And as you are doubtlessly aware of, I have a habit of spreading out and gravitating towards the person I sleep with. The last time you woke up and found me wrapped around you, you gave me a black eye. I'm not exactly keen on repeating that."

Arthur gave and exasperated sigh. "Right now, I don't care. I'll try to remember not to hit you in the morning. It's only a few hours away, anyway."

"That sounds very encouraging," Eames teased.

"Just shut up and either get over here, or go away."

"Who could resist such a lovely worded invitation…?" Eames smirked as he returned to the bed.

"I hate you," Arthur grumbled.

"Oh, I'm sure, pet," Eames replied as he slipped under the covers beside him.


	15. Sleepless

Eames' first thought at waking up next to Arthur – no, scratch that and make it _with Arthur in his arms_ – was not nearly as happy as could have been expected. In fact, his first impulse was to scoot away as far as possible from Arthur as fast as he possibly could. For some reason, the first thing his blurry mind came up with was not _"hey, this is the guy that I'm madly in love with, and we're cuddling, that's GREAT!"_ but rather _"oh shit, Arthur is going to have my head for breakfast…!"_.

Of course, once he was fully awake, he felt that his first reaction had been a little ridiculous. Arthur was fast asleep, his face so angelically peaceful that the mere thought of him being haunted by nightmares – or being capable of breaking Eames' nose – seemed utterly absurd. Carefully, as not to wake him, Eames disentangled his limbs from Arthur's. But he could not help but wonder… he had fallen asleep with his back towards Arthur, who had been facing the opposite wall. How exactly had they ended up facing each other, and locked in something of a loose embrace, no less…? Eames smirked, good spirits returning. Arthur didn't need to know about this – yet – but you needed two people to get into that position…

His smirk, however, slowly seeped away like water in a leaky bucket as he remembered the last time he had woken up next to Arthur. At first, there had been the predictable feeling of elation, but then... well…

… _the first thing Eames noticed was the odd twilight in the room – not the twilight of dawn or dusk, but rather an artificial twilight, created by the combination of a brightly sunny day and the desperate human attempt to shut out the forces of nature. The effect produced by the heavy curtains was a grey half-night, about as unreal as the attempt to recreate summer sunshine in a solarium.  
The second thing he noticed was that his bed felt unnaturally warm. Of course, you had to take into account that this was Dubai, a city too close to the equator for his taste, surrounded by desert. But on the other hand, the room was completely air-conditioned; he could even feel the soft stream of cool air caress his face. The warmth seemed to be emanating from somewhere to his left. Slowly, sleepily, he turned his head. And stared. Open-mouthed. Holding his breath, then letting it escape in a low hiss that turned into an incredulous chuckle.  
Arthur.  
Lying on his left side, curled up and with his back towards Eames was Arthur, prickly, fussy, stick-in-the-mud Arthur, his face flushed with the warmth of sleep, bangs of oddly unruly hair dark against the pale skin of his forehead, and his mouth slightly open. Eames looked down at him and realized that this was quite probably the most adorable sight he had ever beheld – surpassing even the cuteness of his golden haired, angelic baby sister Katie (who by now was a tall, slender woman of twenty-four). The difference between Katie and Arthur, in any case, was that while Eames dearly loved his sister, he would probably have thrown her out of his bed without a second thought, instead of lying next to her, holding his breath and listening to his own accelerated heart beat.  
He also wouldn't have felt that incredible, painful tenderness, tightening to a knot inside his chest, wouldn't have had to resist the overwhelming urge to bend down and place a kiss on those half-opened lips, a long, deep, anything but chaste kiss.  
Having Arthur so close-by, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his sleeping form, close enough to smell him, their bodies touching in more places than Eames cared to enumerate, was a terrible temptation. He felt giddy with excitement, his mind swirling with emotions. Curiosity, lust, longing, and undeniably, love, a deep, desperate, hopeless love for this impossible man at his side.  
And then suddenly, Arthur was wide awake. With most people, waking up was a gradual process, a slow drifting from the unconsciousness of sleep to full awareness of their surroundings that took at least several minutes. Arthur, though, jerked awake in one abrupt motion, his eyes suddenly flung open, staring at the ceiling, then focusing, narrowing – and fixing on Eames. He turned, a rough, ungraceful movement, apparently not caring if any of his limbs hit his bedmate.  
"Eames", he hissed. It sounded as if he had woken up to find his personal nemesis next to him instead of a close friend. "What the hell…? Get off me!"  
Eames wanted to point out that technically, he was neither __**on**__ Arthur, nor even touching him anymore, and that Arthur himself had agreed to this, but he didn't get a chance. Arthur stared at him for a fraction of a second, barely controlled fury blazing in his lovely brown eyes, then he relinquished the control of that fury. The movement was so fast Eames didn't even see it coming, he was o surprised that a first he didn't even feel the pain.  
When he did, he reflexively raised his arms – at least a minute too late. Arthur had already turned his back towards him, and through the tears that shot to his unhurt eye – the hurt one was squeezed tightly shut – Eames saw trembling shudders run over the tensed muscles of his shoulders and upper back.  
"Don't touch me," Arthur said, his voice a low hiss, tight with barely controlled fury… or was it fear…?_

Eames sighed. Definitely not a pleasant experience, nor one that he wished to relive. He judged it best to keep his distance until Arthur woke up, no matter how badly he wanted that embrace. Arthur trusted nobody, and he absolutely hated to be vulnerable. He was like an untamed animal, a wild cat, most dangerous when he felt cornered. Sleep made him as vulnerable as everybody else; therefore, he was especially defensive and belligerent right after waking up. It made sense, but it saddened Eames.

_I wish you could learn to trust me, pet. You already let me come closer than almost everybody else. Why is it so hard for you to take the next logical step? All I want to do is love you, and cherish you, and protect you. From all the bad guys in this world, but also from your own demons…_

Arthur awoke in the same strangely abrupt way he had the last time, but Eames noted with great relief that he appeared a lot less militant. If anything, he seemed a bit disoriented.

"Nice dreams, pet?" Eames asked.

Arthur stretched and yawned, then turned towards him and shrugged. "_No dreams_," he replied, "but if you ask me, that's something of an improvement. It's been a while since I had a few hours of untroubled sleep." He studied Eames' face. "Your eye seems fine," he noted, a hint of black humor in his voice.

"I think you'd remember if you had hit me again," Eames replied with a wry smile. "At least I know _I_ would."

Arthur yawned again. "I need coffee," he stated. "Preferably several cups of black coffee."

Eames nodded. "Sounds like a plan. Do you have anything edible to go with that, or should I go rob the next bakery?"

That got him a small smile. Apparently, Arthur was imagining the scene in his mind, Eames, probably in his pajamas, storming a small Italian bakery filled with the scent of freshly baked bread, holding a gun to the surprised face of a stout baker. Eames had to admit that the image was pretty hilarious.

"You would, wouldn't you?" Arthur asked, still smiling. "But there's no need for that. I'll call Maria and have her bring bread and groceries. She's the baker's niece and she's got her own little delivery service. She does it to earn some extra money while she finishes her studies. There are a lot of older people in this neighborhood who have trouble climbing all of those stairs, and then there are those, who like me are too busy or too lazy to do their shopping."

"Very convenient," Eames agreed. "By the way – is _every_ woman in this country named Maria?"

"Only about every second. Actually, there's only three Marias in my family, and that's including the extended family." He shrugged again. "It's a nice name. Short, easy to remember. I wouldn't mind calling my daughter Maria."

"But you would mind calling her in the street and having twenty girls come running towards you," Eames argued.

"You know, you sound a lot like Salvatore. He bullied everyone in the family into being a bit more creative in naming their children than they'd usually have been. Said when he called a name, he wanted a specific person to come, not five who coincidentally shared that name."

"I'll have you know that I don't consider being compared to your godfather a compliment."

"It wasn't meant as a compliment. I don't compliment you, Eames, your ego is already inflated enough as it is," Arthur replied, a mocking glint in his eyes as he got up.

"You're in an awfully good mood this morning," Eames commented. "Not that I'd mind…"

"Yeah, well, getting a good night's sleep will do that to you."

"And you needed it badly, huh?" He couldn't help it; his heart went out to Arthur. _Poor darling…_

"Don't remind me, or my good mood will be gone very quickly." Arthur muttered.

* * *

Maria, the baker's niece, turned out to be a petite, curly haired whirlwind of a girl, chatting animatedly to them both in an almost unintelligible mixture of Italian and English, and flashing flirtatious smiles at Eames, who readily responded. Arthur visibly didn't approve. He cut Maria's visit short and seemed quite relieved when she was gone.

"She likes you," he stated, almost accusatory.

"I could see that," Eames replied cheerfully. "Why are you making such a sour face? She's a nice girl, and I know for a fact that you can't be interested in her. Are you jealous?"

"You wish," Arthur huffed and stalked off to the kitchen. Eames grinned as he followed him. This was turning out better than he'd expected.

"So," he asked over breakfast (Arthur was nursing his third cup of coffee, apparently he was all but immune to caffeine), "what now?"

Arthur shrugged. "Cobb wants me to scout the premises for a new job that's supposed to take place sometime in January – _if_ Ariadne can make it, that is, because we need her to build for this one. Since you're already here, you might as well tag along; maybe you'll come up with something useful."

"You don't sound particularly convinced," Eames teased.

"Well, you and I have different working styles," Arthur said, watching him over the rim of his cup. "I usually prefer to get the preliminaries done without interference, but your input – even though chaotic – has been helpful on one or two occasions, so…"

Eames shook his head. "If I had any doubts about those dreams having a personality altering effect on you, they are eliminated now. The dreams are gone, and you're back to your old smug and condescending self. "

"Sorry to disappoint you," Arthur replied sarcastically.

"Oh, don't worry, pet – I _like_ your personality, even if there's more thorns than roses – that's Lucia's metaphor, by the way, not mine. Sweet and tender is just plain boring."

"I'll remember that and remind you next time you complain."

Wait a minute – were they _flirting?_ A second glance at Arthur's face, the mischief in his eyes and the quivering of his lips, as if they wanted to break into a smile, told him that, yes, they were.  
_Huh. Well, you never cease to amaze me, darling…_

* * *

Eames, despite his constant teasing, had always liked to work with Arthur. First of all, he was absolutely reliable, a quality that could not be underestimated, considering that everybody in the team had to build on the information he provided. Secondly, Arthur was a perfectionist, and that quality, even though it sometimes annoyed the crap out of Eames, insured that there always was a plan B, C and D. Also, working with Cobb had taught Eames to highly appreciate the fact that Arthur was disciplined enough to keep all his private demons out of the dreams. He was always focused, and he never lost his head, even in the face of certain failure.

Arthur wasn't a natural team-player, but he was adaptable and not nearly as egocentric as Cobb. Eames liked Dom – he really did -, but he didn't trust him to keep his back. There were few people Dom was invariably loyal to, and Eames didn't count himself among them. Arthur on the other hand, would never have left a teammate behind. It had little to do with sympathy; it was a question of old-fashioned morals. Whoever had drilled them into him; he or she had done a good job… and was in part responsible for Arthur's haunting nightmares.

Those nightmares… as they walked the city together, occasionally discussing various aspects of the upcoming job, Eames pondered his own advice to Arthur. _Get rid of the gun beneath your pillow…_ easier said than done. And why had Arthur not tried to break free before, if the nightmares bothered him so much? Eames felt certain that he still knew only part of the truth. He didn't doubt that Salvatore Santangelo or his associates were capable of threatening or harming Arthur's family, but why was Arthur working for them in the first place? It had to be more than the family connection.

It couldn't be money, since the dream business, illegal though it was, was a virtual goldmine. As far as Eames knew, Arthur had no financial obligations and no expensive hobbies, except his taste in clothing, so there was no reason he should be financially indebted to anyone.

_Its personal_, Eames thought, _it has to be. _

* * *

_Well, I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas...! This is the last chapter for what's left of the year, and I hope you like it! A BIG thank you to everyone who took the time to review the last two chapters, you made me very happy. I'm glad to see that you seem to enjoy the story as much as I do.  
_


	16. Stella

Looking back at it from an hour's distance, it had been a bad idea.  
In the course of his life, Eames had accumulated a fair amount of actions he had regretted afterwards; but his interactions with Arthur, funnily enough, usually involved regrets about _not_ doing something.

Not this time, though. This time, he had actually given in and _done it_ (had lost control, as Arthur would have said), and the strange thing about it was that it did not make him feel better. Quite the opposite actually.

Eames had wanted to kiss Arthur _for years_. Possibly even since the very first time they had met, though back then, it had been more of a frivolous joke, something he just had to do, because he knew that Arthur would resent it. Oh well. Back then, Eames had still been convinced that Arthur was about as interested in men (or, in fact, any kind of sexual activity with members of either sex) as the pope. Not that that had made him any less attractive.  
However, Eames had learned very fast that baiting Arthur was a dangerous game. It was fun, to be sure, but there were some lines you did not cross. Because boy, you did not want Arthur pissed at you. An angry cobra was a lot less dangerous than an angry Arthur.

And so, he had waited.

For months. Years, even. And over time, his feelings for Arthur had changed. Impossible to say what had set it off, or when it had started, but Arthur had managed to get under his skin. To become important, wanted, needed. To move from co-worker, to friend, to the-goddamn-love-of-my-life, complete with heartbreak and everything.

After all that time spent waiting, hoping and despairing, their first kiss had arrived silently, almost accidentally. There had been no warning, and not even an intention. Eames had not wanted to kiss Arthur at that particular moment, in the dark, slightly musty corridor in front of his Trastevere apartment; he had always wanted that very first kiss to be meaningful, a special, unforgettable moment.

It was unforgettable in its own way; but that was not the way Eames had had in mind.

Why did Arthur have to drop his key…? The question haunted Eames. He could still hear the sound of metal on stone, and Arthur's quiet curse. They had returned to the apartment, weary, hungry and slightly wet after spending most of the day outside. Scouting the premises had somehow turned into exploring the city, which had been fun, but also tiring. And now Arthur had dropped his key, and they both reached for it at the same time, and there you go.

It was so cliché. That moment, repeated over and over again in movies, soaps, plays, books. Hands touching, a feeble apology, then staring into the eyes of the other that you could barely make out in the dim light, transfixed. Moving closer. Lips touching suddenly, soft and warm and strange, and that painful tight feeling inside your chest… and in the movie (book, play, etc.), it was supposed to stop at that. Only it didn't in real life.

Arthur responded to the kiss. He kissed back with an intense, a fierce and passionate determination, as if making the kiss itself an act of defiance. He took Eames by surprise, but then, as a forger, Eames was quick to adapt. As long as it lasted, he had the time of his life, and he would have been only too glad to take the kiss into the direction it was leading anyway, namely the cloth-ripping and moaning direction, but unfortunately, Arthur came back to his senses in time.

He turned his head away and straightened up before Eames could do anything. A whispered _'Sorry' _in the dark, then the door was open.

And now, two hours later, Eames watched Arthur struggle with what had happened as he put away the dishes. Dinner had been a silent, uncomfortable affair, awkwardness stifling all conversations, short, furtive glances cast at each other. Eames hated this. He wished Arthur would just make up his mind and realize that while the kiss might have come at a rather inopportune moment, it was hardly the end of the world. Besides, the situation would have been a lot less awkward if they had just gone through with it. Eames didn't need anyone to tell him that he was insanely attracted to Arthur – it wasn't just love, it was also pure, unembellished lust – and he felt certain that Arthur was not entirely unaffected. Hell, he _knew_ that Arthur was interested, or at the very least, that Arthur's body was interested, no matter how much of a struggle his mind might put up. He had received tangible evidence of that today, and damn, it had felt good!

Eames liked being right; especially about things that mattered, and there was hardly anything that mattered as much to him as Arthur did.

A plate clattered to the floor and broke. Eames raised his head from the pot he had just been cleaning.

Arthur cursed softly and bent to gather the fragments. "I can't do this," he muttered, more to himself than to Eames.

"It's just dishes; and think I can deal with them on my own," Eames said, his voice laced with taunting irony, "if multi-tasking isn't your thing, why don't you take your thoughts to the living-room, pet?"

Arthur's expression suggested a severe toothache, and he seemed ready to snap at Eames, but surprisingly enough, he kept his mouth shut. After disposing of the broken plate, he turned his back to Eames and left the kitchen.

Eames sighed.

_Why do you absolutely have to make life so goddamn complicated for the both of us, love?_

He quietly finished cleaning and putting away the dishes, taking his time, because he knew that Arthur needed some space. Actually, what Arthur needed was a whack on the head and a father who told him that he was behaving idiotically, but Eames knew that Arthur's father was very unlikely to deliver either, and he could hardly summon his own father to do the job… even though it had worked wonders for him, fifteen years ago. He smiled fondly, remembering that incident.

_I wonder what Dad would think of Arthur… I doubt that he'd be too impressed at first, Arthur awfully resembles the picture he painted of Mum's first husband – the mannerisms, the suits – and I don't think those are happy memories. But they'd get to know each other better, eventually._

As he ambled into the living room, he realized that he wanted his family to meet Arthur. Eventually. And that was new. Eames had never brought anyone home with him. He had occasionally told his parents and/or his sisters when he was in love with someone, or in a relationship, but they had never actually met the person in question.

Possibly, because there had never been that one 'significant other'. Not until now. Not until Arthur.

Arthur was sitting at the desk, working on the last, unfinished drawing, his pencil making soft scratchy noises as it travelled across the paper. He seemed completely engrossed in his work – a form of meditation, or possibly denial, Eames suspected. After watching him for a minute or two, Eames decided that disturbing him would only lead to more awkwardness, so he went into the guest bedroom and settled down with a book. Usually, he did not read mystery novels, but this one – courtesy of Yusuf, who loved them – was pretty good.

However, after reading about twenty pages, Eames found that the book was not nearly good enough to take his mind off Arthur.

With a sigh, he closed the book and tilted his head to the side, listening. No sound was to be heard from the other room, but knowing Arthur, he would still be sitting at the table, drawing. And he would continue to do so for at least another hour or two… Arthur was nothing but determined and consistent.

Stretching out on the bed, Eames contemplated the mess he was in. Not that that was anything new, being in a mess. He had grown accustomed to facing all kinds of strange problems and predicaments. They came with the job. And this one came with Arthur. If Eames wanted the princess, he'd have to fight the dragon. The problem with this metaphor, however, was that the dragon had multiple heads and the princess was very reluctant to be saved, and wielded a pretty sharp sword herself.

"I'm heading out," Arthur said from the door. Eames looked up, surprised to find him standing there, his composure suggesting anxiety, nervousness and maybe even a hint of guilt. Eames suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. The words _'Come on, pet, it's not that big of a deal'_ were already on the tip of his tongue, but he held them back.

"Out?" He asked, glancing at his watch. It was half past ten. Outside, it was dark, cold and possibly wet. "To do what, exactly?"

"Take a walk. Get some fresh air." Arthur shifted uneasily. "Look, I just…"

"You're not running away, are you?" Eames asked suspiciously. "Because that would be a very stupid thing to do, not to mention quite embarrassing."

Arthur looked intently at the hardwood floor. Maybe he was seeing something Eames didn't. Maybe.

"I'm not running away." He said quietly.

"Physically," Eames added.

"Huh?"

"You're not running away physically. Psychologically speaking, you've been on the run since that accident thirteen years ago."

"Eames," Arthur said. It sounded pained. "Don't."

Eames shrugged. "Suit yourself, pet. Take a walk. Get cold, get wet. Just make sure to come back. And don't do anything stupid; I can sense when you are in the mood for stupid things, no matter where you are."

"You were wrong in Dubai," Arthur pointed out.

"Was I…? Or are you just lying to yourself? You're an excellent liar, Arthur, and repression is your specialty. You might not even notice it."

"I… you know, just forget it." Arthur turned and marched out of the apartment in a huff.

Eames shook his head. "Why did I have to fall for this one?" He asked the ceiling. "When there were so many easier options…? Blond, pretty, simple girls. Nice, uncomplicated guys. But no, I had to pick a bloody masochist whose only goal in life appears to be making himself and other people miserable. Not to mention that his hobbies include devising ingenious new filing systems and shooting people in the head. I'm _such_ an idiot."

It was no use. He would have to talk to Arthur, and he was not looking forward to the conversation. _Everything would be so much easier if I could just get him to relax. Let down his guard, at least around me._

He took the book and got up, having decided to wait for Arthur in his bedroom. Maybe he should lock the door again and throw away the key…? It had worked once…

* * *

Eames could not remember to which conclusion he had come regarding the throwing-away-the-key matter, but he was pretty sure that falling asleep on Arthur's bed had not been a part of the plan. Nor had being assaulted by something large, heavy and slightly wet.

Blinking blindly into the darkness, Eames struggled to get his senses together.

_What the…!_

The attacker, he realized, was most definitely not Arthur himself. He would have recognized Arthur's smell, and the feel of his body. Besides, he did not think that for all their difficulties, he had given Arthur enough reason to try and strangle him.

So this was a stranger, and a violent, unfriendly stranger at that.

Eames tried to tell the person where to stick it, but found that talking requires air – something he was lacking right now. He kicked and thrashed, hoping to throw the other off, but the stranger was strong and held onto him like a drowning man to a life-saving raft.

Well… not good. At least, the tight grip loosened a bit. He coughed and gasped for air. And then he shouted. It was rather inarticulate, but insults did not have to be coherent, and besides, Eames just felt that he had to express his feelings about this unfriendly treatment. And attract Arthur's attention.

_Darling, NOW would be a good time to charge into the room and shoot this bastard! Please…?_

But maybe Arthur had not yet returned from his nightly stroll, or he simply did not care, because he certainly failed to rush to Eames' aid. He was on his own.

He kicked, and one of his knees, or maybe his foot, apparently hit a sensitive spot. The stranger gave a low hiss. It sounded a bit like an angry cat. Eames kicked again, trying to hit the same spot, and he felt his attacker pull back momentarily.

Kicking and trashing, he tried to free himself, but the stranger was still on top of him, and after a moment's recovery, had him pinned to the bed once again. At least he was not being strangled anymore.

"Who are you?" The strange voice hissed.

"Shouldn't that be my question to ask?" Eames was angry, perplexed and definitely not in the mood for games.

"Answer!" The tone of voice suggested that this was an order you better obeyed, or else VERY BAD THINGS WOULD HAPPEN.

"Daniel Eames. What the hell is your problem?"

And just then, he realized something. The voice was female. His attacker was a woman.

"And what," she asked in a very quiet, very dangerous tone of voice, "are you doing in Arthur's bed?"

Had he not been in imminent danger of strangulation, Eames would have laughed. This was just too bizarre. Like a scene from a movie, where the jealous ex-girlfriend (ex? hm…) assaulted somebody she suspected of sleeping with her lover.

"I was sleeping, until you woke me up by trying to kill me," Eames deadpanned. "And who the hell are you, by the way?"

And just then, somebody turned the lights on. Eames squinted to see Arthur entering the room. "Stella, meet Daniel Eames. Eames, this is Stella Santangelo." He sounded… amused?

Eames looked up at the woman who was sitting on his stomach. She was tall, muscular and stunning. Jeans and a black leather jacket covered a very well proportioned body, her dark hair was cut short, reaching just below her ears, and her tanned face was gorgeous, all huge dark eyes, long lashes and sensually curving lips. This was a woman who needed no make-up, no accessories to be beautiful… just as she needed no weapons to be deadly.

And Eames knew that he would have hated her on sight, even if she had not tried to strangle him. He also got the feeling that that sentiment was mutual.

"Stella, release him," Arthur told her, and reluctantly, she got off him and stood next to the bed.

"You could have told me that you were expecting company," Eames complained to Arthur. "Especially considering that she tried to murder me."

Stella snorted. "If I had been trying to kill you, you would be dead already," she said. Her voice was a pleasant soprano, slightly accented, and the complete opposite of what you would have expected from looking at her.

"Which brings us to the interesting question of how she managed to slip past you?"

Arthur shrugged. "I was outside until a few minutes ago. Stella must have entered while I was gone."

"I was watching you," she confirmed, and it sounded rather self-satisfied, "for the last twenty hours. I came as soon as I learned of your conversation with Papà. Besides," she told Eames, sneering down at him, "I have keys. See?" She dangled a keychain from her left hand.

"Do I want to know why she has keys to your apartment?" Eames asked Arthur, brows raised.

"Because I trust her." Arthur replied simply.

"He trusts me not to bring any boys over, sì?" Stella said, leaning over to playfully pat Arthur's cheek. "And to clean up after myself. But you have not answered my question…", she gave Arthur a reproachful look, "what is he doing in your bed?"

Arthur blushed scarlet.

Eames grinned. "Sadly enough, it's not what it looks like. I was waiting for Arthur to come back and fell asleep."

Stella looked from Arthur to him and back. "Now, why do I not believe that that is all there is…?" She asked sarcastically. "Arthur, _micetto_, have you been keeping secrets…? Other than the obvious, I mean?" She laughed. "Are you suddenly shy…? Ah, wait till I tell my brother…"

"You will do no such thing!" Arthur sounded possibly scandalized.

"Won't I? But Santino would be laughing so hard, if he could see you now…! It's always the good boys who hide the naughtiest secrets…" She looked at Eames, studying him, then giving an appreciative click of tongue. "Valentina was right, he is pretty."

"Why are you here, Stella?" Arthur asked, sounding exasperated.

"Oh, but to see _him_. I have to make sure he is good for you, right? Is he nice? Can he be trusted? You have no _Mamma_, no _Tata_ who can help you find the right one. But don't worry; I am here to help you."

"I seriously doubt that," Arthur muttered.

Stella walked around Eames, measuring him with her eyes as if she was contemplating to buy him. "He is not very strong," she noted, "he cannot protect you, but then, you don't need protection, do you?"

"Hey, that's not fair!", Eames protested. "You assaulted me in my sleep."

Stella ignored him. "Valentina says, you have a sense of humor," she said conversationally. "I like that. Arthur has none whatsoever. Very dreary. All work, no fun, right, Arthur? Only when he is drunk… you are very cute when you are drunk, _micetto_."

"Stella, stop it!" Arthur looked as if he was about to die from embarrassment. "I should never have given you those keys."

"Oh, I did not use the keys to get in," Stella replied cheerfully.

* * *

_Hi everyone! Thanks for the reviews on the last chapter! I'm sorry you had to wait so long for this one. So... now you've met Stella. Do you like her? (I do) Or do you agree with Eames, who hates her...? Of course, though, he is insanely jealous...^^_


	17. Complications

"So, _micetto_…" Stella asked, drawing out the pet name, "what is this business _Papà_ sent you to do in Siena?" She had settled down at the living room table after gently pushing Arthur's unfinished drawing out of the way and replacing it with a bottle of red wine and three glasses.

"Did he not tell you?" Arthur asked.

Stella shook her head. "He told me that you had been there to see him and that I should go find my brothers, so we could meet you in Siena next weekend. I found one of them so far – Santino returned today. Savio is… gone. As always." She rolled her eyes.

"And then you decided to just pay me a visit instead…?"

"Exactly. Now, Valentina had been babbling about your _very attractive friend_" – she shot Eames an amused look – "you know Valentina, she can't keep her mouth shut. Don't look so shocked, Arthur, what did you expect? Besides, it's perfectly harmless. She likes to tease, but in truth, she's such an innocent girl. She would never doubt you. All she saw is a stranger that you work with, and you'd do well not to tell her otherwise… unless you want _Papà_ to know…?" Stella raised her eyebrows.

Arthur shook his head emphatically. "He does _not_ need to know everything."

Stella grinned, showing brilliantly white teeth. "Precisely. As far as _Papà _is concerned, you are still chasing after _me_, and we do not need to rob him of that little illusion."

"Wait a minute," Eames cut in. So far, he had been following the exchange in silence. "Would somebody please disentangle the family ties for me? Now you're Salvatore's… daughter…?"

"Niece," Stella corrected him. "I just call him _Papà,_ because everybody does. My mother is the youngest sister of Arthur's grandfather." She eyed him quizzically. "Does that bother you?"

"Not so much. One can't choose family, after all. What bothers me most is the fact that you tried to kill me." _Apart from the fact that Arthur intended to marry you once, of course…_

"I did not!" Stella replied, sounding exasperated. "I was just… playing."

"Playing," Eames echoed incredulously.

"Yes." She looked at him from underneath long, dark eyelashes. It was the sort of sly come-hither-look that would have looked good on the screen or on a magazine cover. On the face of the woman who was his most serious rival for Arthur's affection, it just looked a little creepy. "Some girls like to play rough, you know?"

"Well, that's just _too_ bad," Eames drawled, now seriously annoyed, "because I'm _not interested._"

"In girls? Well, won't Valentina be upset to hear that…" She chuckled.

"In psychopaths," Eames deadpanned, "no matter what their gender. Listen, if I asked you to just go away, please, would you do it…?"

"Eames," Arthur admonished.

"Nope." Stella shook her head.

"I was afraid you'd say that," Eames replied, sighing dramatically.

"Do you want me to go away, _micetto_?" Stella asked Arthur slyly.

"You may stay," he replied, "however, would the two of you please stop snapping at each other? It's somewhat annoying."

"It's alright," Stella told Eames. "Jealousy. I know the feeling. But I suppose we'll have to do Arthur a favor and behave ourselves… for the time being. Especially, if we're both going to Siena."

"Now, wait a minute," Arthur held up his hand, frowning, "who said that either of you is going to Siena?"

Eames shrugged. "I told you I'd be there."

"I never said I agreed!"

"You don't have to, pet," Eames told him amiably, "I'm not accompanying you to make you happy, I am doing it to make sure that you're still alive and breathing afterwards. I have plans for you, Arthur, and they do not include attending your funeral." Eames fixed him with a burning gaze.

_Stubborn idiot! This is complicated enough as it is, so why do you have to be so troublesome?_

He noticed that Stella was looking from Arthur to him and back with an expression undulating between amused and bemused.

Arthur sighed. "It's not what you think," he told her wearily.

Stella grinned. "Yeah, right. Ah, _micetto_, you're in such big trouble…!"

"Tell me something I don't know," Arthur snapped, before lowering his voice to a calmer, somewhat resigned tone: "So what's your excuse?"

"Why… that _Papà _sent me, of course! I mean, he did not say _explicitly_ that he wanted me to go with you, but it was sort of implied when he sent me to find Santino and Savio, no?" She winked at him, then stretched and yawned. "But we can discuss the details tomorrow. I'm tired; it was a long day. If I promise not to kill anyone, can I stay?" The latter was aimed at Eames, accompanied by an ironic wink.

Arthur looked as if he wasn't too happy about that idea, and Eames knew that he himself was certainly opposed to it.

Stella seemed to notice the hesitancy. She rolled her eyes. "Men! It's only an awkward situation if you make it one. I'll sleep in the guest bedroom, and we'll take turns in the bathroom. Arthur knows best that I have a tendency to shoot people who try to disturb me while I am in the shower."

"You do?" Eames asked, intrigued.

Arthur pulled a face.

"Point is," Stella said, "all three of us should be capable of behaving like reasonable adults. So… I'll take the guest bedroom – unless you'd prefer if I slept with Arthur?" She sent Eames a taunting look.

"Go to hell," Eames answered pleasantly.

"Good night to you, too," Stella replied. She got up, rounded the table, bent down to kiss Arthur on the cheek and then turned her back to them, marching towards the bathroom. Both men watched her warily.

"You know," Eames said conversationally, "I think I like your other exes better. Particularly the dead one."

"I heard that!" Stella called from the bathroom.

Arthur scowled. "Go back to bed, Mr. Eames," he said, sounding tired himself.

* * *

Eames was still wide awake when Arthur returned from the bathroom after what seemed like an inordinate amount of time.

"Did she try to shoot you?" He asked when the mattress dipped beneath Arthur's weight.

"Several times, but not today," Arthur answered accurate as ever, his voice slightly muffled by the pillow. He shifted slightly, trying to find a comfortable position without accidentally touching Eames, which wasn't that easy.

"She's a strange woman," Eames mused, "and I don't particularly like her. I think, the feeling is mutual, though."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that," Arthur replied drily, "if Stella didn't like you, she'd let you know. She is usually very… direct in expressing her feelings. No, I think she is just curious. You are the first friend of mine she ever met, and it seems that when Valentina told her about you, Stella immediately jumped to conclusions."

"So that little _'game'_ earlier tonight was for your benefit?" Eames asked.

"Maybe. Stella is like a little girl in some things. She's having difficulties drawing the line between funny and not-funny-anymore. Reminds me of somebody, actually." Eames could have sworn that he heard a teasing undertone there.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he replied, smirking.

"Oh, I'm_ sure_." Arthur stretched a little; then he fell silent.

Eames was already beginning to think that he had fallen asleep, when Arthur began to talk again. "Eames… you need to promise me something." His voice was very quiet and serious. "If I can't keep you from coming with me to Siena, at least make sure to stay out of the line of fire. I don't want your blood on my hands. I don't want to be responsible for yet another death."

For a moment, Eames was surprised, but then he felt a little annoyed. _Why can't you tell the truth, pet? Why can't you just say that you're worried about losing me…?_

"But that's not all there is, is it?" He asked softly.

"No," Arthur admitted to his surprise, "I meant what I told you the other day. Our friendship means a lot to me, and I don't want to lose you. I'm in dire need of friends right now."

"No kidding," Eames muttered, before firmly adding: "You won't lose me. But I won't let you get killed either. Fair enough?"

Arthur sighed. "Don't do anything stupid."

"Shouldn't that be my line…?"

"I'm serious, Eames."

"Oh, I know, darling. You always are." Another moment of silence stretched out between them. Eames would have dearly loved to just take Arthur into his arms, go to sleep and forget, but there was something wrong with this picture. "Arthur…" he asked hesitatively, "may I touch you?"

He heard a sharp intake of breath. "That's the first time you asked." Arthur sounded surprised.

"I didn't want to spook you anymore than I already did," Eames admitted ruefully.

"You didn't spook me," Arthur said, his voice resigned, "it's just… I… well, let's not complicate things right now, okay?"

Eames was torn between disappointment and a faint glimmer of hope. _'Not right now'_ could after all mean _'later'_. It was a possibility. A chance.

"… you may," Arthur added in an afterthought, so softly as if he feared the words would come back to haunt him.

"You are a strange creature, pet," Eames murmured, edging closer. He wrapped one arm loosely about Arthur's waist and laid his cheek against Arthur's shoulder.

"You already told me that once," Arthur replied sleepily.

"Well, it's true."

"Uh-huh."

* * *

When Eames woke up, cool winter sunlight was tinkling into the room. _Too early, _his sleepy mind protested. He fully opened his eyes and to his surprise found Arthur sitting on the edge of the bed, his hair wet from an early shower, his pale blue shirt still unbuttoned and showing a generous portion of his chest.

The sight was mouthwatering. Eames couldn't really blame his brain for going from sleepy to lascivious in no time. He was about to make a comment about this being the goddamn nicest sight he'd woken up to in a long time, when he noticed Arthur's gaze fixed on him. He looked… mesmerized, there was just no other word for it. Arthur had a very expressive face, and the emotion showing in his eyes sent a shudder down Eames' spine. It was _longing_. A sudden, intense, inexplicable yearning that Arthur apparently couldn't control and that- Eames suspected - he was only dimly aware of himself.

_Huh? Did I miss something, or am I still dreaming…?_

He stirred, and involuntarily broke the spell. Arthur jerked up, smiled an almost apologetic smile. "Good morning."

Eames looked at him puzzled for another thirty seconds or so, and then decided that it was no use asking about it. "Morning, pet. Did you sleep well?"

Arthur shrugged. "As well as could be expected."

Eames nodded and yawned. "Another short night, huh?"

"I'm used to those," Arthur replied drily.

"And I'm getting used to them. Your taking a huge toll on my beauty sleep, darling. I hope you appreciate the sacrifices I'm making," he teased.

"Nobody asked you to make any sacrifices," Arthur huffed, "in fact, I would be quite happy if…"

"Yeah, yeah." Eames waved it away as he got up. "No need to tell me. Is Catwoman already up and purring?"

Arthur looked at him, obviously confused, then he grinned. "No, Stella is not exactly a morning person. I'll go wake her up soon, though."

"Tell her I'll shoot her, too, if she interrupts _me_ while I'm in the shower. _You_, on the other hand, are most welcome to join…" He added with a sly wink.

Arthur shook his head, but he was still smiling. Eames therefore considered his mission accomplished.

To his disappointment, neither Arthur nor Stella came to pay him a visit while he was in the shower, but they both turned up later, when he was in the kitchen making breakfast. Eames had spent some time with a Canadian extractor on a job a few years back. The man had been foolishly reckless and, having pissed off the wrong people, was dead now, but Eames still considered pancakes for breakfast a pretty neat idea. Of course, he didn't have any maple syrup to go with them, but he figured that honey would do just as well.

Stella apparently thought so, too.

"Ooooh, he can cook!" She said after throwing a look over his shoulder. "You should definitely keep him, _micetto_!"

Eames turned to look at them, Arthur, blushing and busying himself with a stack of plates, and his beautiful, boisterous cousin who looked very much like one of Charlie's Angels after a rough night.

"For once, I agree with her," he commented.

"Arthur can't cook," Stella told him. "At all."

"Really? There's actually something Arthur _can't _do? I always thought he was perfect in everything he did."

"Heavens, no!" Stella exclaimed, laughing, just as Arthur threw in a protesting "Stop making fun of me. You couldn't cook if your life depended on it."

"Relax pet," Eames told him fondly, "you're still perfect to _me_."

"Aww, that's so cute," Stella said, stealing a pancake from the stack that was already sitting on a plate next to the oven. Eames raised his spatula at her. "Hands off my pancakes! Go make yourself useful, or at least stop bothering me."

* * *

_This story keeps getting longer and longer, and even though I know where it's supposed to be going, it amazes me how many things keep popping up and trying to squeeze in... there was absolutely no reason to have Eames making pancakes, but... it just happened... for those of you who're despairing because they're impatiently waiting for the M-rated part... relax. It'll come, I promise. The next chapter is about breaking into Gabriele Ajala's house... and after that, I might take Arthur and you all to meet Eames' family..._

_Now as always, reviews are absolutely lovely. Keep them coming, please ;)_


	18. The Italian Job

Maybe, Eames mused, he had been a bit hard on Arthur. It was true that Arthur didn't entirely trust him – but it was also true that he didn't entirely trust Arthur, either. He didn't trust him to meet their _'appointment' _in Siena, for example.

Arthur was as sneaky as he was stubborn, and he had made it abundantly clear that he didn't really care for the idea of Eames being in on this particular job. Therefore, Eames wouldn't have put it past him to conveniently forget about their understanding and pull it off without him.

"So… Friday, first of December, eight o'clock. What was the restaurant's name again?"

"_Caprifoglio_."

"That's too many syllables for me to pronounce it correctly. Can you say it again?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "_Caprifoglio_. It's a plant. In English it's called honeysuckle, I believe."

"Is the owner a botanist?"

"I don't know, and I don't particularly care either. He serves excellent pasta."

"You know, pet," Eames said slowly and with a sly grin, "this is starting to sound more and more like a date. Just you and me, in a restaurant…"

"I could always ask Stella to come along," Arthur offered drily.

"Ah… no, thanks. That would ruin it."

"It's not a date, Eames. It's business."

Eames smiled at him. "Sure."

Arthur scowled. "Don't make me cross. If you want to tag along, you better stay on my good side."

"If this is good, then what does your bad side look like?" Eames teased.

"Trust me; you don't want to find out. They're calling your flight. Go."

Eames looked at him, took in the immaculate suit, the frown on his face and the worried look in his beautiful brown eyes, and knew that leaving was a very bad idea.

He took two quick steps and bent slightly to place a soft kiss on Arthur's front, the movement so fast that Arthur failed to avoid it. "Be safe, darling."

Arthur's expression softened. "I'll do my best," he replied wryly.

* * *

Eames would have vastly preferred to stay with Arthur, especially since going _'home'_ for four days, only to return to Italy on the fifth seemed like a waste of time and money. But since Arthur had made it clear that he needed some alone-time to prepare (and maybe, or so Eames hoped, to work out what had passed between them), staying in Rome was not an option.

Going home, on the other hand, wasn't either. _Home _was a two story house near Maidstone in the county of Kent; its weathered reddish-brown brick front half covered in ivy, its kitchen filled with Mum's laughter and the scent of homemade bread. It was a place Eames didn't visit very often, and when he did, he usually announced his visit several weeks in advance to make sure that everybody else would be there as well. Because home without Mum, Julia, Katie, Phil, Charlie and Dad just wasn't home.

He had other places he could go to, though. Places all around the world; and he never stayed in one too long or returned to it too often. Right now, there was an apartment in Sydney and another one in Mumbai. Eames had greatly regretted having to leave Mombasa (at least for a while), but he had a few useful contacts in Sydney and Australians in general were easy to get along with. For now, though, Sydney was too far off, and so was Mumbai.

He went to Valetta.

There was nothing particularly attractive about Malta, besides its location and its climate. That and the fact that most people didn't stay longer than a week before coming down with a severe case of island fever and leaving never to come back again. Eames could blend right in with the usual crowd of island hoppers. Nobody bothered him, nobody asked any questions. In short, it was perfect.

Except for the fact that Arthur was more than 800 kilometers away in Rome; preparing for a dangerous job, and most likely haunted by nightmares.

To distract himself from this depressing idea and the desire to go back to Italy, no matter what the consequences might be; Eames decided to call Ariadne. She was a nice, uncomplicated girl, possibly the most understanding among his friends, and talking to her usually cheered him up.

"Eames! Where are you?" He could almost hear her smiling through the telephone. It was always the first question she asked.

He chuckled. "If I tell you, you'll hate me. I'm on holiday, sort of. Warm weather, blue sea and everything. Well, warm for November, anyway."

"You're right, I hate you now," Ariadne replied cheerfully.

"Well, you'll hate me even more if I tell you that I've got a very special date on Friday."

"Oh? Who's the unlucky girl?"

"You wound me! It's Arthur."

"Arthur's not a girl," Ariadne deadpanned, before realizing what she'd just said. "Oh. _Oh._ Are you serious, Eames? You're going on a date with Arthur? What did you do…? I mean, how did you…?"

Eames smirked. "Well, he insists it's not a date, but…"

Ariadne laughed. "Figures. So, what are you doing? Dinner and a movie?"

"Well, actually, it's more like dinner and a kidnapping, possibly preceded by breaking and entering and a gunfight."

"Sounds like fun. Now, seriously, Eames – what are you up to? It's not a date, is it? Are you in trouble? Is Arthur?"

"Depends on your point of view. In my opinion, Arthur's in trouble, and I am probably going to get in trouble trying to help him out. From Arthur's point of view, life sucks and I'm being troublesome."

"I'll be very mad at you if anything happens to him," Ariadne warned.

"Why does everybody automatically assume that I'm the bad guy and that Arthur needs protection?"

Ariadne was silent for a moment, before replying: "I believe we already had that conversation. And seriously – can you imagine Arthur as the bad guy?"

"Yes," Eames said, thinking of the nightmares, "Unfortunately, I can. But I'm willing to do everything so that he doesn't stay the bad guy. I want him to be happy and healthy and safe."

"Eames…" Ariadne sounded upset. "What's happening?"

"I can't tell you in detail, Ari. I'm sorry. But Arthur's in pretty deep. And I love him, so I'm going in with him."

"Is there any way I could help…?"

Eames smiled sadly. She was such a sweet girl. "Not right now, but maybe later. I'll keep it in mind."

After his conversation with Ariadne, Eames wasn't really in the mood for sightseeing; but he went out to explore the city anyway. The word city actually seemed a bit of an exaggeration considering that the population of Valetta wasn't even a tenth of that of Maidstone. Eames did not mention that to any of the inhabitants, though. They seemed awfully proud of their city, their island and their history.

He amused himself by trying to read the Maltese inscriptions on signs and street names. It was a strange language. To him, it looked and sounded as if somebody had tried to blend Italian and Arabic in a valiant attempt to build a bridge between East and West. The result was a bit strange. He wondered whether Arthur would have been able to understand any of it.

_Maybe I should learn Italian_, he mused. _Might be helpful to understand the bad guys better._

Besides, it was a better idea than aimlessly wandering around the island. With that thought in mind, he entered a bookstore, and after purchasing a couple of books on grammar and vocabulary as well as a dictionary, asked for the closest language school.

* * *

Eames had always had a knack for languages, but there was only so much you could learn in a few days; even with the help of a private tutor. The language classes helped to distract him and keep him occupied, though. For two days, he even resisted the urge to call Arthur three times a day merely to check up on him and to hear his voice.

_Are you still alive, darling? Are you safe? Have the dreams returned?_

Eames barely dared to admit it to himself, but he missed Arthur. A lot. It was an almost physical longing, as if one of his limbs had suddenly gone missing.

On the third day, he could stand it no longer and called; feeling stupid and clingy, but at the same time unable to resist.

"Eames?" Arthur's voice sounded faintly surprised. "What's the matter; has anything happened?"

_Of course_ he would assume that something was wrong.

_No, I just needed to hear your voice…_

"Everything's fine, darling. I'm just bored out of my mind, so I decided to bother you."

Arthur snorted. "Get a life, Eames. I'm busy."

"Actually, I'm just trying to get a grip on word order in Italian."

"You're learning Italian? Since when?"

"I just started two days ago. "_Sono stato ferito." _and "_Como arrivo all'aeroporto?"_ are just about the extent of my knowledge."

"Your pronunciation is atrocious," Arthur said.

"Why, thanks for encouraging me, darling. I'd like to hear you speak Swahili."

"Why would I learn Swahili?"

"It's an interesting language. Quite useful, too."

"I'll take your word for it. Why are you learning Italian?"

_For you._

"I have a feeling it might get useful."

"Uh-huh."

"Listen, we're still set to meet Friday night, aren't we? You're not about to pull it off without me?"

"I still think you should stay out of it," Arthur replied, "But I do keep my promises."

"Good. See you day after tomorrow, then. Sleep well, darling."

"I'll try my very best," Arthur said drily before hanging up.

* * *

_Love changes a man_, Eames thought, as he stared at his reflection in the full-body mirror that formed the door of his hotel wardrobe. The last time he'd worn a dress shirt anywhere outside a dream had been the funeral of a former co-worker, and he had only worn it out of respect for the bereaved.

Today, though, he wasn't going to a funeral. Nobody had died… yet.

And yet he was wearing a navy blue dress shirt. It actually looked and felt surprisingly good. It went well with the black pants and Italian leather shoes. Eames figured that while he was in Italy, he might as well get some shopping done, and since he had arrived around noon he'd had plenty of time to spend ridiculous amounts of money on new shoes and on Christmas presents for his family.

_Oh my God, I'm turning into Arthur! Help, please?_

Arthur would appreciate it, though. And Arthur was the only reason for this change in looks.

Eames was willing to admit that he felt a bit silly about it, but he was curious to see Arthur's reaction.

When he arrived at the restaurant, he was not disappointed. Arthur saw him, got up to greet him – and froze. The look on his face was priceless, and it made Eames laugh.

_Yep, it was definitely worth the trouble…_

It took Arthur a moment or two to recover from the shock of seeing Eames in something that did not criminally offend every sane person's taste and actually suited him (Eames had not picked the color by accident).

"Did your suitcase get lost on the flight?" He asked in a somewhat shaky attempt at irony.

Eames grinned. "Do you like it?"

"It's a… pleasant change."Arthur looked and sounded just a tiny bit flustered.

_Mission accomplished, _Eames silently congratulated himself.

"Well…" Arthur began, shifting his weight nervously, "Shall we order?"

"Sure."

During the course of the meal, Eames smiled to himself, because he felt Arthur's eyes on him whenever Arthur thought he wasn't looking.

_This is getting better and better. Just admit it, pet – you love the shirt, but what you really want is an opportunity to peel it off me._

Arthur was filling him in on the details of his plan – which was pretty straightforward – by the time the main course arrived.

"So how many people are there going to be?"

"Six. You, me, Stella, Santino, Savio and Pietro. A bigger team would be too much of a risk."

"Funny that we should need six adults to get one little girl."

"Well, the house is heavily guarded. I'm planning on leaving Pietro and Savio outside to stand watch and take care of any unexpected _'guest'_ who might turn up while we're inside. Besides, neither of them ever understood the meaning of the word _unobtrusive_."

"So they're thugs?"

"Of the worst kind. Santino is different. And you've already met Stella."

"Oh yes. What did you tell them about me?"

"That you're a business associate. I trust you, they trust me. That's all. There won't be any questions asked, Salvatore has seen to that. Apparently, you left a favorable impression."

"I didn't really say all that much when we met."

Arthur shrugged and took a sip of wine. "He's a good judge of character."

"Oh. Was that a hidden compliment, darling?"

Arthur threw him a look across the rim of his glass. "Maybe. I'm kind of bedazzled by the fact that you chose to wear something decent tonight, so I might have let it slip."

"That's a good one, blaming it on the shirt," Eames teased in a low, amused tone, "Just admit it, pet – you're finally coming round, because you've realized that I'm irresistible."

"In your dreams, Mr. Eames, in your dreams."

"That's true, actually."

"Huh?" Arthur's brows furrowed.

"About the dreams," Eames clarified. "You being in them, more specifically."

"You're still dreaming?" Arthur asked, his eyes widening in surprise. "But I thought…"

"Not still," Eames corrected him gently, "_Again._ Don't ask me why. I haven't quite figured it out myself yet. But it's got something to do with you. You're always there, darling. In the dreams, I mean. Now, doesn't that give you a nice warm feeling of your own importance?"

"Actually, it sort of worries me," Arthur replied.

Eames laughed.

* * *

There was no time to admire the architectural beauty of the cathedral when they met Arthur's _'cousins'_. Stella greeted Arthur with a hug and Eames with a sly grin and a wink, but her brothers were all business. Santino, her twin, was lean and dark haired and looked very much like her. Savio was a bit smaller, burly and abrupt. Pietro stayed quiet and watched for most of the conversation.

"We're going in tonight," Arthur told them. "There's a window of opportunity, because Gabriele had to leave unexpectedly; apparently one of his business operations in the south has gone sour. He took most of his guards and cronies along, and since Emilia, the wife, is visiting with her family, the house will be minimally staffed. There are two stationary guards at the main gate, and two at the back entrance. Two or three will be patrolling the gardens and the house. Gabriele employs a housekeeper, two maids and a nanny, all of whom are usually staying at the house. Emilia might have taken the nanny along to take care of her sons, but the housekeeper and maids will certainly be there. Chances are that one of them is charged with caring for Alessandra."

Santino nodded. "Okay. So we take down the guards and try to find the little girl without waking the staff."

"That's the plan. I want Savio and Pietro to stay outside, in case we miss a guard when we go in and to make sure there are no nasty surprises. We'll split up once we get inside and search the house. We'll have to move fast. The earliest Gabriele could possibly be back is around dawn and I want all of us and the little girl to be well on our way home by that time."

"Then let's hope the housekeeper doesn't like to stay up late and read," Stella cut in cheerfully.

* * *

Arthur's plan was flawless – up to the point where everything went amiss. They overpowered the guards at the main gate and Santino spent about twenty minutes disabling the security system. From what Eames could see, he was pretty good at what he did, and he had had a lot of practice. Savio and Pietro meanwhile hunted down the guards that patrolled the gardens; while Arthur and Stella snug around to the back gate.

"They'll kill all of them, won't they?" Eames asked conversationally.

Santino looked up from the screen he was bent over. "That would be the most sensible thing to do, yes. A dead man can't shoot you from behind when you least expect it."

_But he can still haunt your dreams;_ Eames thought and hoped for Arthur's sake that he wouldn't be the one who fired that deadly shot.

"I'm done," Santino announced. "Call Arthur and tell him we're ready to go in."

"There's no need, I'm already here." Hearing Arthur's hushed voice was a great comfort to Eames. He stepped into the guardhouse. "No problems so far," he reported.

Santino merely nodded. "Is Stella with you?"

"Waiting by the front door. Let's go."

They crossed the gently sloping lawn. Stella met them on the steps that let up to the door. It was already open and left ajar. Stella made an inviting gesture. "Avanti!" She was enjoying this a bit too much for Eames to feel comfortable around her.

Inside the main hall they split up. Arthur left Santino to check the ground floor, where he did not expect Alessandra, but maybe another guard patrolling the halls. He sent Eames up to the second floor, which was likely to be empty, since it housed the master bedroom and bathroom, a couple of guest bedrooms and a library. "We have to be sure, though." Eames nodded. He was not exactly comfortable leaving Arthur, but considering that he was to search the first floor with Stella, he was probably tolerably safe.

Or so he thought.

As it turned out, there had been two misconceptions: One assuming that the second floor would be empty - there was a guard, albeit a young and inexperienced one, who after a brief struggle passed out as Eames hit his head hard against the headboard of the king size bed. The second one was assuming that Arthur would be safe with Stella and his gun.

As it later turned out, little Alessandra was indeed staying on the first floor, in the company of the maid who took care of her in the nanny's absence. To everybody's great surprise, being threatened at gunpoint did however not convince the woman that giving the little girl up without a fight would be a pretty good idea.

The ensuing struggle involved Arthur, Stella, the maid and the last remaining guard, who unfortunately was much better trained than the one Eames had encountered upstairs. When Eames and Santino came running, one from above, the other from below, they found a wailing child, a cursing Stella, two corpses and Arthur, who was coughing, the front of his shirt covered in blood.

Eames rushed to his side. "What happened?"

"Go! Get out!" Arthur urged, nearly choking on the words. "One of the guards at the gate apparently had time to call reinforcements. This is about to get messy real soon."

Stella said something to her brother in rapid Italian and Santino nodded, grabbed the infant from its crib and rushed out of the room.

"Go!" Arthur insisted.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me, darling," Eames replied, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "Let's get out of here together, shall we?"

"I'll cover you," Stella said to his surprise.

Eames half-dragged Arthur down to the ground floor and out the back door, where they met Savio, who moved in to steady Arthur from the other side. Together they made it to the waiting cars.

"Eames," Arthur's voice sounded strange and urgent, "I need you to go with Santino and Pietro. They'll drop you off near the airport. _Go home_, or wherever else it is you go between jobs. _Do not_ stay in Italy. I'll call you."

"You can't be serious. You're hurt and I..."

"Stella and Savio will take me to a doctor. Don't make me force you."

"No way!"

"Stella," Arthur said wearily, and suddenly, Eames felt cold metal pressing against his neck. He had not heard her approach. "Now be a good little boy, Daniel", Stella murmured behind him. "Do as he says. I'll take care of him."

* * *

_Sono stato ferito. = I am hurt._

_Como arrivo all'aeroporto? = How do I get to the airport?_

_Avanti! = Let's go!_


	19. Done Pretending

After the disastrous ending of his stay in Italy, Eames went to Mumbai. He holed up in his sparsely furnished and not exactly homey apartment, feeling jetlagged, exhausted and dejected. On the third day he went out and got drunk, which didn't exactly help his mood either – he spent the fourth day with an enormous hangover and feeling sorry for himself.

On the fifth day, he received a text message from Arthur. It was short and to the point – very Arthur. It also made Eames throw his phone against a wall in an attempt to find an outlet for his frustration.

_- I'm fine. Stop worrying. A. –_

That afternoon, Eames bought a new phone and explained to his landlord that he was going to move out of the apartment – and that he would pay for the paint job and the touch up of the bedroom wall that now had a visible dent.

He spent another two days packing his belongings and instructed a moving company to have them shipped to Sydney. They fit into two large boxes.

Staring at the now nearly empty apartment, he got the depressing feeling that there was something seriously wrong with his life. With that depressing notion set in his mind, he decided that it was time to call his family. Mindful of the time difference, he waited until about one o'clock.

There was a certain order Eames liked to follow when contacting his family. His first choice was his oldest sister Julia, but Julia led an insanely busy life and if she wasn't jetting around the globe on company business, she practically lived at her office. So if Julia wasn't available, his mother was next in line. There were some things, however, that sons did not like to discuss with their mothers, and if one of those cropped up, Eames called his father. As a last resort, there was his youngest sister Katie. Eames didn't always appreciate her sharp-tongued wit and smartass comments, but had to admit that Katie was capable of finding a solution to almost any problem.

He was lucky this time – Julia had taken the evening off. The downside of that was that she had decided to spent it with Katie, who was in full girly and giggly mode after a couple of drinks. (Julia didn't do girly. Or giggly.)

"Well, if it isn't my lost brother," Julia said when she heard his voice. "Katie's here. I'll put you on speaker."

"No that's…"

"Hey there, Eames," Katie chimed. "What are you up to?"

"I'm…" _… sulking. Well, among other things._ "I'm okay. How are you?"

"That's not what I asked, and you don't sound okay. Besides, you never call when you're just _'okay'_. You call when you're either very happy and or very unhappy," Katie informed him.

"She has a point there," Julia said, "even though she makes you sound somewhat bipolar."

"Yeah, thanks for turning me into a mental patient, Katie." Eames rolled his eyes.

Katie giggled.

"Oh, hush!" Julia said. "So, what's up? Will you be home for Christmas?"

"I think so."

"Great!" Katie said. "What can we get you?"

"A gun. I want to shoot myself," Eames replied ironically.

"See, I told you," Katie said to Julia. "He's mental. Suicidal in addition to bipolar."

"What's with the sudden death wish?" Julia asked.

"My life sucks."

"… and then you die. I know. Nothing new about that," Julia replied drily. "Is there anything in particular that's bothering you?"

"Arthur."

"Oh." Julia said.

"Oh," Katie echoed. "Wait – wasn't that the guy you work with and that you have that humongous crush on?"

Eames frowned. "It's not a crush, Katie."

"No? Don't tell me you've finally managed to get into his pants."

Eames rolled his eyes. _Katie dear, if Mum could hear you, she'd be shocked to hear her little girl use such language. But then of course, you would never let her hear that. You'll always be Katherine to her and Katie to us._

"It's not about that either! Well, okay, maybe it is about that, too, but… it's more than that."

"And you've been mooning over him for how long, now…?" Julia asked. "Come on. Take it or leave it. Either tell him what you want or let him go."

"It's not that simple. Arthur has… issues."

"Well, so do you, apparently."

"Jules," Katie said, "you're being hopelessly unromantic. Or poor brother is spilling his heart to us and you tell him to get over it…? That's not very nice." And then she giggled. Again.

Eames groaned. "You're being supremely unhelpful," he told them.

"Tell you what," Julia said, "you should bring him over for Christmas dinner. We'll have a look at him and tell you if there's any hope or if this is going to trade under the heading _'bad romances that should never be mentioned again'_."

"Julia, it's not that simple… what am I supposed to tell Mum? Besides, I don't think Arthur would even agree to that…"

Julia sighed audibly. "Eames. Just how serious are you about this man?"

"Very."

"See, that's what I thought. So quit fooling around and take the next step."

* * *

Eames had almost forgotten about Saito's and Sakura's wedding; and he didn't feel in the mood for it either. However, he knew that he would have felt bad about disappointing Sakura; and disappointing Saito just wasn't an option. You didn't do anything to upset your imperious, unscrupulous billionaire friends if you valued your health and personal safety.

He had no choice but to grin and bear it… and hope that it would be over soon. Luckily, he did not have to worry about a wedding present, since Dom and Ariadne had already taken care of that – it would be a gift from the entire former inception team.

The wedding took place in London, and there was nothing traditional about it. It was a splendid affair though, very well planned and organized. Eames didn't count the guests, but felt that there had to be at least two hundred of them, from all over the world, generating an almost Babylonian medley of languages. Lost among the colorful crowd, Eames had trouble finding his friends.

He finally ran into Dom and his children after the actual ceremony, when the guests made their way towards the hotel where the wedding reception was to be held.

"Eames," Dom greeted him, looking somewhat strained (Eames could imagine many more enjoyable things than a transatlantic flight with two children). "How are you?"

"I'm okay. Where is everyone?"

"Ariadne went to see the bride and say hello in person, she hasn't had a chance yet. She arrived late, because her flight was delayed."

"Figures. The one with the shortest distance to travel arrives last. Unless… is Arthur around?"

Dom nodded. "Yes. And looking for you." His expression grew a bit puzzled. "What exactly is going on between the two of you? Arthur is behaving a bit oddly."

"He is?" Eames asked sharply.

Dom shook his head. "It's hard to explain, but he _does_ seem a little nervous."

Eames smiled grimly. "He should be. I'm not too happy with him right now."

Dom cast him a curious look. "Is there anything I should know about…?"

"I'm sorry, Dom, but it's none of your business."

"That's what Arthur said, too," Dom replied with a soft sigh.

* * *

Eames met Arthur near the buffet tables laden with sweetmeats and various cakes and desserts that were arranged in a circle surrounding the table on which the magnificent wedding cake was displayed. It was a less than ideal setting, to say the least. A significant number of guests had retreated to this part of the room after dinner and now there was a loud, cheerful crowd gathered around the tables.

Eames spied Arthur at the other side of the crowd. His black suit was immaculate and beautifully tailored, but he looked strangely pale and gaunt in it. Arthur looked up and their gazes met over the heads of a group of petite Japanese women, who were trying to discourage their overexcited children from eating too much cake. Eames felt his heart skip a beat, but refused to let it show how relieved he was to see Arthur alive and in one piece.

When Arthur started moving towards him, he remained stationary, refusing to meet him halfway. Arthur looked puzzled at this, and as he approached, his expression became increasingly unconfident.

"Eames." Arthur said when he was but two meters away. His voice was barely audible over the chatter of the crowd.

"Fancy seeing you here, pet," Eames replied, struggling to keep his expression neutral.

"Well, I was invited, wasn't I?" Arthur looked confused.

"Oh, I was merely referring to the fact that you nearly wouldn't have made it here, considering that from the looks of it; you were bleeding to death just two weeks ago. Let me compliment you on your miraculous recovery." His voice was dripping with sarcasm.

Arthur frowned. "Are you alright?" He asked, sounding as if he had some serious doubts regarding Eames' state of mind.

Eames ground his teeth, unsure whether he was furious, frustrated or both. "No," he replied acidly, "no, I'm not alright, Arthur. The last time I saw you, you were choking on your own blood. And there may be some sick bastards, who think that's kinky, but I'm definitely not one of them. From where I stood, it looked as if you were dying. And you send me away and tell me not to worry about it…? What the hell, darling? Do you expect me to be okay with that? Do you expect me to act as if nothing had happened? Because I can't!" His voice had grown louder with each sentence, as he put all his anger and frustration into words. Arthur looked downright alarmed now.

"Eames," he said urgently grabbing him by the arm, "let's take this someplace more private, shall we?"

Eames looked up to see several curious faces turned towards them, and shrugged. He let himself be ushered out of the room, trying to sort out his thoughts as Arthur led them through several sets of doors, up a flight of stairs and through a long hallway. He took a keycard out of his pocket, opened a door and showed Eames into a spacious hotel bedroom.

"Now you may rant and rave all you want, but we won't ruin the party," he declared.

Eames gazed at him for a long moment and noticed the insecurity in his expression and bearing. He shook his head and let himself drop down heavily on the edge of the bed. "I don't want to rant," he said, suddenly feeling exhausted, "I think I'm just done with it."

"Done with what?" Arthur asked. It sounded as if he was wary of the answer.

"Done pretending. I'm done pretending that I don't care about you as much as I do; done pretending that it doesn't scare the bloody hell out of me to see you hurt and bleeding like that, done pretending that it doesn't hurt me when you push me away."

"It wasn't that bad," Arthur replied in a surprisingly small voice, "I guess it looked a lot worse than it actually was. The bastard caught me unaware and he hit me in the face, before Stella could shoot him. Most of the blood was actually his. I received a few nasty cuts and bruises and it cost me two teeth, but I suppose I was pretty lucky after all."

"Lucky," Eames echoed incredulously.

"Yes."

Slowly Eames looked up at Arthur, whose dark eyes conveyed a troubled mixture of conflicting emotions. They were startlingly beautiful in their confusion, Eames thought. He shook his head. It was no use. No use sitting here, staring up at Arthur, when he desperately wanted to hold him and never let go of him again.

"Darling," he said quietly, "You'll be the death of me, but I can't help it. I must be mad; or maybe I have a death wish and don't know about it." He rose to his feet, crossed the short distance that separated them and pulled Arthur into a tight embrace. For an instant, time stopped.

Arthur lay very still in his arms, his breath brushing across the side of Eames' neck.

"I'm sorry," he suddenly whispered.

Eames gave a choked, mirthless laugh. "You better be, darling. You aren't the only one haunted by the fear of losing somebody he loves, you know."

"Would it help if I promised never to do anything like that again?"

Eames sighed. "No, because I wouldn't believe you."

"Oh."

"Why did you send me away, Arthur?"

"I was scared."

Eames contemplated that statement for a moment. "We're a right pair of idiots, aren't we?"

Arthur pulled back and raised his head to look at him. He did not smile, but there was a new tenderness to his expression, something Eames had never seen on his face before. "Maybe we should stop trying to patronize each other," he suggested, his tone of voice as sad and fond as the look in his eyes, "maybe you should stop trying to save me, and I should stop trying to protect you."

"I see. And do you think that's likely to happen?" Eames asked wryly.

Arthur shook his head. "I suppose you're right. We're both… oh, I don't know what we are, but it isn't good. I know that much."

"Try _'stubborn'_, love," Eames suggested, his voice dropping to a soft murmur. Arthur was so close; too close.

Their first kiss had been an accident; but this one was not. It had been hovering in the air between them for minutes, like a thought waiting to be put into action. This time, Eames knew exactly that he himself had initiated the kiss and what had brought it about.

It was a slow, gentle, almost languid kiss. He felt Arthur lean in and respond, his eyes closed, his reactions slow and dreamy at first, before the passion that Eames had felt in their first kiss and that had so surprised him returned. He smiled against Arthur's lips. Maybe it shouldn't have come as such a surprise, after all – Arthur _was_ a passionate man; he was just unusually good at hiding it.

He opened his mouth to allow Arthur full entry, elation mingling with excitement as their bodies aligned to meet their sudden need for closeness, for fusion; every touch both caress and incentive. Eames tried to let Arthur set the pace, but his arousal got the better of him. Suddenly, Arthur's hands were flat against his chest, pushing him back.

"Stop," Arthur ordered, panting heavily. His eyes were wide and seemed even darker than usual.

"What is it?" Eames asked in bewilderment.

Arthur shook his head. "I don't want this."

Eames stared at him in disbelief. _Oh, you've got to be joking…!_ _I __**feel**__ that you're hot and hard for me, darling; and you're trying to tell me that you don't want this…? What new sort of folly is that? _"Darling…", he began, but Arthur cut him short.

"No. You heard me; and I hate to repeat myself. I don't want this." He sounded angry now, but whether his anger was directed against Eames or against himself was hard to tell.

Eames felt frustration and disappointment washing over him like a cold wave. "Well, I do," he stated firmly and a bit more sharply than he had intended to, "and I wish you would make up your mind, pet."

"You do…?" Arthur asked with a strange inflection in his voice.

Eames snorted. "Yes, and that shouldn't come as a surprise to you, so you can stop pretending to be astonished."

"Friends don't usually lust after their friends, do they?" Arthur asked sarcastically.

"They do often enough, but that's beside the point. I told you that I value our friendship, darling, and it's true. I want to be your friend. But I also want to be your lover, your partner, your companion in life. I want to wake up with you in my arms and without fear of being hit in the face, and I want to share everything you're willing to share with me."

And now it was Arthur's turn to stare, wide-eyed, his lips slightly parted, and his expression one of incredulous wonder. "You're not serious," he whispered, "don't mock me, Eames."

"I am dead serious. Much as I love to tease you, I would never trifle with something like that," Eames assured him. He drew a deep breath, and with a lingering feeling of disappointment, took a step backwards. He had come to a conclusion, and even though a rather large part of him struggled against it, it did appear to be the most sensible thing to do.

"I suppose Ariadne was right after all," he mused. "She kept telling me to be more straightforward, probably because she knows how amazingly thickheaded you can be if you choose. I've done everything but beaten you over the head with the truth, darling. You need to figure the rest out for yourself, and much as I'd like to, I can't help you with that." He looked at Arthur, at that beautiful, careworn, confused face and sighed. "I suppose I'll see you at breakfast tomorrow morning, darling. I've given you a few things to think about, and I should probably leave you to consider them."

He felt that it had never been more difficult to turn around and walk away, but Arthur's silence told him all that he needed to know. _Some people need to be shocked out of their aloofness, _Eames thought, _but I have to give him some time to get his head straight and to adjust; otherwise he'll run like a frightened deer. Make up your mind, darling. And please don't make me chase after you again…_


	20. Breaking The Habit

Sleep would not come easily to Eames that night. It resisted him like a particularly stubborn and suspicious mark, refusing to trust his forged identity. When the softly glowing display of his bedside alarm clock read 03:35, he was still awake and felt like he had been tossing and turning for hours.

Maybe Arthur's insomnia was contagious…? If so, then Eames had given the bug ideal conditions – after all, all a virus asks for are a weakened immune system and bodily contact with an infected person. He shook his head. Those were strange thoughts. After all, he knew perfectly well where Arthur's sleeping problems came from. And he knew what was keeping him awake, too.

Suspense.

He knew that somewhere in this building, in a room very similar to his own, Arthur lay awake, his brilliant mind considering options, weighing pros and cons, assessing, reviewing, evaluating. Eames suddenly remembered his sister Julia telling him about the writing on the wall, when they had been children. As a girl, Julia had been fascinated by riddles and mysteries, and the more gruesome a story, the better she liked it. To Eames, who had then been only eight years old, she had seemed like a heroine from one of her own stories. He remembered gazing at the wall of his twilit bedroom, shuddering as he imagined the terrible writing appear; the letters drawn by invisible fingers. _"You have been weighed on the scales and found wanting."_

Eames had never been religious, nor particularly superstitious, but even as a child, he had instinctively understood the message of the story. Our lives may not be predetermined by some higher power, but our fate often enough rests in the hands of others. It is their decisions that steer us in one direction or the other.

Eames was at the crossroads now, and even though he felt pretty sure that he knew by now which path he wanted to take, everything depended on Arthur's willingness to walk that road with him.

_And are you willing, darling…? I don't know. If I believed in God, I would be praying for divine intervention right now._

At some point after thinking that, he had to have fallen asleep, since he woke up around half past seven, feeling groggy and slightly disoriented. After a quick, cold shower that helped him to clear his mind, he once again found himself in front of the mirror. And maybe he _was_ a bit superstitious, after all, because putting on the blue shirt felt like activating a lucky charm.

He shrugged, giving his mirror image a lopsided grin. _It worked once, didn't it?_

He left the room and went downstairs; and after taking two wrong turns finally arrived in the breakfast room shortly past eight o'clock. The large windows displayed a magnificent view of wintery grey London beneath an equally grey sky that was pouring rain on the city. Not a very promising sight and the somewhat hushed atmosphere in the room matched it perfectly.

He found Dom and his children, Ariadne and Arthur sitting at a table near the back of the room. Saito, who was apparently doing his morning rounds, checking on his guests, had just arrived and was leaning on a chair, talking to them in quiet tones. Ariadne was smiling and making conversation. Dom listened attentively, stirring his coffee. Arthur looked as if he couldn't care less.

Eames walked across the room casually, and then slid into the empty chair next to Philippa, who beamed up at him. "Eames! Good morning!"

"Morning, sweetie. You finally got to wear pink at a wedding, didn't you?"

She grinned happily. "You saw my dress yesterday? Isn't it pretty?"

"It is very pretty."

"Ariadne bought it for me. We went shopping together!"

Eames looked up, winking at Ariadne across the table. She looked amused.

"That sounds like fun."

"It was. But Eames…?"

"Yes?"

"I _do_ get to wear pink at your wedding, too, don't I?" Philippa looked at him expectantly. "You promised!"

"And I keep my promises," Eames assured her. "But you might have to wear a different pink dress then, you are growing so fast."

"Oh, that's alright. I'm sure I'll find another one I like."

"You are getting married, Eames?" Arthur's voice sent thrills down his back. He looked up and across, the table. Arthur was looking at him intently, but it was impossible to say what he was thinking. His face looked tired, though.

Suddenly, Eames felt unsure what to say; and that didn't happen very often. Arthur continued to look at him, his dark eyes unreadable, and in the end Eames decided to simply skip the question entirely. "And a good morning to you, too, Arthur. You look bad. Did you sleep at all?"

Arthur frowned. "You of all people shouldn't have to ask that. We need to…"

_.. Talk_, he had probably wanted to say, but he didn't get a chance to finish his sentence, because James, who sat next to him, knocked over his newly filled cup of cocoa trying to reach for another bread roll. Steaming hot cocoa poured down on Arthur's lap, spilling over his light grey pants and white shirt. Arthur gave a surprised yelp and tried to get out of the way, but it was too late.

"Oh dear," Ariadne caught the fallen cup.

James stared at the mess he had made with wide, innocent eyes. "I'm sorry!" He spluttered.

To everybody's surprise, Arthur's scowl turned to a somewhat pained smile and he ruffled the little boy's hair. "Don't worry. It was an accident."

Ariadne handed him a napkin, but Arthur shook his head. "It's no use. I'll go upstairs and get changed."

As a server was called to change the dishcloth and wipe away the remnants of cocoa, Arthur hot up and left the room. Eames raised his eyebrows at Dom. "What was that all about? James pours his drink all over Arthur's prized clothing, and all he says is _'Don't worry'_? He almost murdered me when I accidentally spilled a tiny bit of champagne on his shirt last year!"

It wasn't Dom who answered, but Ariadne: "You aren't six years old anymore, though," she told him with a smile, "Arthur is probably mad, especially since the stuff was hot, but he would never lash out at a child."

"Arthur is mad at me?" James asked worriedly. "I didn't mean to…! It just happened!"

Ariadne turned towards him. "No, not at you. He loves you guys." Then, turning back to Eames she added: "You could do a good deed, Eames. Go upstairs and bring Arthur some coffee. He'll probably fuss over his clothes for quite a while, and he looked as if he could really need some caffeine."

Eames shrugged. "Anything you say."

_Especially if it means there is a chance I might get to see Arthur half naked…_

Unwittingly, James and Ariadne had just given him the perfect setup for that much needed conversation with Arthur, so he was not about to complain.

* * *

"Arthur…? It's me. May I…?"

"Come in, it's open."

Eames opened the door, stepping into the hotel room and was startled by the sight of Arthur wearing nothing but his cocoa-stained pants.

"Why, bless me…!" He said. "The world has all grown strange. I'm wearing a dress shirt and you aren't…? Never thought I'd see the day, darling."

Arthur shrugged, looking a little sheepish. "I'm afraid I ran out of clean, ironed shirts. I wasn't planning on getting hot cocoa spilled all over me when I packed my suitcase," he admitted.

"So you decided to go topless for the rest of the day?" Eames suggested. "Way to go, pet! I'm sure I'm not the only one who'll appreciate that."

"Don't be ridiculous," Arthur huffed, "I'm going to take a shower, then change. Luckily I brought along a pair of jeans and a sweater."

"You even own such things?" Eames just couldn't resist the urge to tease him.

"Are you here to mock me?" Arthur asked crossly.

"Actually, I was bringing you coffee." He held up the cup.

Arthur's expression softened slightly. "Okay, maybe I don't hate you that much, after all. Let me just get cleaned up, then we can talk, alright?"

"You want any help with that?" Eames asked slyly.

"Ha! You wish," Arthur snorted, before taking the cup from him and disappearing into the adjacent bathroom.

"Actually, I do," Eames replied, sure that Arthur would hear him even through the closed door. "You can't expect me to resist temptation when it constantly parades around right in front of me, can you?"

"Well, maybe you would get farther if you actually told people what you want from them," Arthur replied from within the bathroom.

"Is that supposed to be a hint?" Eames called, but even if Arthur actually replied anything to that, it was drowned by the sound of running water.

Eames shrugged and vowed to corner Arthur as soon as he stepped out of the shower. In the meantime, though, he was in need of a distraction, and Arthur's iPod, propped up in its shiny black docking station, looked pretty tempting. He idly flipped through the tracks and albums. Arthur had a strange taste in music, covering everything from Mozart's Requiem to Madonna. Eames randomly hit one of the playlists, which turned out to be a Linkin Park medley, then flopped down onto the bed and waited for Arthur to emerge from the bathroom.

He was only dimly aware of the music playing in the background, but when Arthur stepped back into the room, he sat up straight and for a moment actually listened to the song.

"…_I want to heal, I want to feel,  
Like I'm close to something real  
I want to find something I wanted all along  
Somewhere I belong…"_

Eames raised his eyebrows. "How very… fitting, pet."

Arthur cast him a wry look. "Well, I suppose that's called gallows humor." He passed a hand through his slightly tousled hair, suddenly looking young and lost in his oversized grey hoodie.

Once again, Eames felt his heart break at the sight. It was a small wonder that there was anything left of it at all, considering how many times it had broken and he had mended it – or at least attempted to do so – recently. Reaching a sudden decision, he asked: "What are you doing for Christmas…?"

Arthur shrugged uncomfortably. "Not much, I guess. Just the usual… spending a few quiet days at home. Dom invited me to spend time with him and the kids. I'm not sure I should go, though… it's their first Christmas back together, and I think it should be a family thing."

_A family thing_. Merely saying that had to hurt him more than Eames could imagine.

"You're probably right," he said, "you should come along and stay with me and my family instead."

Arthur turned to look at him, an astonished expression on his face. "Why ever would I do that…? I don't know them at all."

"Yes, well, that's the whole point of getting to know them, right? Come on, darling, it'll be fun! My family's a little strange, but I think you'll like them. And I'm sure they'd like you."

… _because I can't see how anybody could NOT like you…_ his mind supplied.

"Do you always bring your friends over for Christmas?" Arthur asked curiously.

Eames shook his head. "No. Just you. And don't you dare to ask me why I'm doing it."

A small smile crept on Arthur's face. "That was going to be my next question…" Then he sobered, shaking his head. "It's a kind offer, Eames, but I'll have to decline. Christmas is for family, and you should spend it with them and not drag any other people into it. I'll be fine, I always have been…"

_Yeah, right._

Eames sighed in exasperation. "Don't be such a stubborn git, Arthur. If it makes you feel better, I'll wrap a giant bow around you and declare you my very special Christmas present to myself… you know what, just listen to this…" He reached out to touch the I-Pod in its mounting and flipped to the next song in the playlist.

Arthur raised his brows. "And…?"

"That song."

"What about it?"

"It's called _'Breaking the Habit'_, darling, and that's what you should do."

To his surprise, Arthur actually smiled. "You won't let me refuse, will you?"

"Nope. You've got no choice, pet. But I promise it'll be worth it. Come here." He patted the mattress next to where he was sitting.

Arthur eyed him curiously for a long moment, then he stepped closer. Eames reached out for him and pulled Arthur down beside him. "Now," he said quietly, "I apologize for keeping you up all night; but did it at least help you to see things more clearly?"

"Clearly?" Arthur raised his brows. "You've got to be kidding me. My life is a mess, and you are not helping. Quite the opposite, actually." But they were very close, and Eames saw a spark of amusement dance in Arthur's eyes that belied the gruffness of his voice. "You are such a nuisance, really. But since you refuse to go away, no matter what I do or say, I've decided to give it a try. It's dangerous and foolish, and it'll probably get us both killed, or worse; but it seems that I don't have much of a choice, anyway." He looked straight at Eames, his eyes dark and solemn. "I need you. It's too late to leave now, I'm afraid. I'm sorry."

Eames felt his breath catch as he drowned in those dark eyes. "You've got nothing to be sorry for, darling," he whispered.

Arthur reached up to touch his cheek, softly running his fingers down the side of Eames' face. "Not yet," he replied softly, tilting up Eames' chin and leaning forward to kiss him.

* * *

Compared to the thrill of Arthur's almost-declaration of love, the rest of the day passed in a rather quiet and ordinary fashion. Eames would have been only too pleased to explore all the possibilities of _'I need you'_, but Arthur, uptight as ever, would have none of that. Instead, they returned downstairs and had breakfast.

Arthur tried to act as if nothing had happened, but Eames grinning from ear to ear was a dead giveaway, and neither Ariadne nor Dom or Yusuf, who had finally joined them, were that oblivious.

Eames felt Ariadne nudge him under the table, and when he looked up she smiled and winked at him.

Arthur noticed it, too, and rolled his eyes.

"I know what you are thinking right now," He informed her, "one word about it, and I'll throw your Christmas present into the nearest fireplace."

Ariadne stuck out her tongue at him.

"Speaking of Christmas," Dom said, "the children and I are leaving at noon and I need to know whether to expect you or not." He looked at Arthur questioningly. "You know that we would love to have you there."

Arthur smiled softly. "Thank you," he replied sincerely, "but I'm afraid I'll have to decline."

Dom looked slightly dejected, but not very surprised. He opened his mouth to protest, but Arthur cut him short. "I'm not going to spend Christmas alone in New York and get drunk or anything stupid. Don't worry."

"Hm…" Dom looked from him to Eames and back, and a look of amusement crossed his face. "Well… judging by the fact that Eames is grinning like a Cheshire cat, I think I can hazard a guess as to where you are going to spend Christmas."

"Oh…?" Ariadne asked, smirking. "Where are you going?"

"Home," Eames said simply. "Where everybody goes for Christmas."

* * *

_Notes:_

_The two Linkin Park songs mentioned in this chapter are "Somewhere I Belong" and "Breaking the Habit". _

_The story about the writing on the wall is from the biblical book of Daniel. The writing in question was a warning message to Belshazzar, king of Babylon. _

_Arthur's taste in music reflects my own. I will listen to almost anything, except German folk music, which is a modern form of medieval torture. Think Vogon poetry from "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy"._


	21. Dreams

_I apologize for the long wait, guys. I'm pretty busy at the moment. Now in return, here's a nice, fluffy chapter for you ;) Enjoy!_

* * *

"Shopping?" Eames asked incredulously. "You want to go shopping _now_?"

"Sure," Arthur replied, completely unfazed, "why not? I still need Christmas presents for a lot of people I don't know and if we are going to leave the city tomorrow morning, I will have to get them this afternoon. And you are coming along, because they are your family, and I don't know what to get them."

"But that's so… I don't know, ordinary, I guess. I have been tiptoeing around you for months, maybe even years; trying to win you over. Now I finally got you to admit – grudgingly, I might add – that you may possibly return my feelings, and you won't even let me celebrate that. I can't simply go _shopping_ now, darling. There's no way. Doing something as boring and normal as that would totally ruin the mood. That's like – like walking the dog on your wedding day! Or mowing the lawn after learning that you have won the lottery."

Arthur laughed heartily at that, and for a moment, Eames forgot all his objections and every other reasonable thought that had been on his mind. He could have sworn that he had never heard Arthur laugh like that, and it was a wonderful sound, fascinating and addicting and incredibly precious, since it was so rare. Mirth danced in Arthur's eyes and his face was completely open and carefree for a moment.

"What?" He asked when he caught Eames staring at him.

"You laughed."

"Yes, I just couldn't resist. You were being ridiculously sappy," Arthur explained mirthfully. "I suppose it's true what they say about people who are tough on the outside… you are a true romantic at heart, Eames."

"You make that sound like a bad thing," Eames pouted. Not that he was really put out with Arthur; how could he have been, while he was still under the spell of that beautiful, intoxicating laughter? He had just added a new item to his daily to-do-list: making Arthur laugh.

Arthur shook his head. "It's not. It just came as a surprise."

"Really, darling?" Eames raised his brows. "Then you obviously haven't been paying attention. I've been trying to be your knight in shining armor for quite a while now, you just wouldn't let me."

"And there's a reason for that," Arthur said, all amusement suddenly replaced by his usual earnestness. "Because knights, like all warriors, have an unwholesome tendency to die young." His dark eyes were fixed on Eames' face now, sad and serious. He gave a soft sigh. "I really shouldn't be doing this," he muttered, half to himself.

Eames didn't have to do much guessing to understand what he meant by that; and it was not to his liking. He took two steps towards Arthur, effectively invading his personal space. Arthur did not flinch, which was probably a good sign… or maybe he was just getting used to being crowded.

"Oh yes, you should," Eames told him firmly, placing his hands on Arthur's shoulders. There wasn't that much of a difference of heights between them, but with a bit of effort, Eames still managed to stare down at him. It was all in the _look_. "You have as much a right to be happy as anybody else, darling. And more importantly, so have I. Which is why there's no way in heaven or hell that you'll back out of this now."

"Yours is a strange definition of happiness, Eames," Arthur replied wryly. "I can think of better things to do with your life than spending it with somebody who is very likely to get you killed sooner or later."

"I do love your optimism and your positive attitude towards life, darling," Eames teased.

Arthur glowered at him. "You're not taking this seriously."

"You are serious enough for the both of us. It's _Christmas_, darling, and you get to spend it with me and a stomach full of butterflies – so how about a bit of happiness?"

"Butterflies?" Arthur asked, raising his brows. "I'm not sixteen, anymore."

"It's never too late to fall in love," Eames told him cheerfully, then placed a kiss on his temple and released him. "Come on, let's do some Christmas shopping."

* * *

Christmas shopping with Arthur was… well, _interesting_, to say the least. The experience closely resembled that of visiting a chocolate factory when you are on a strict diet, because all Eames really wanted was to touch Arthur, constantly, and to back him into a wall, or a shop window, or a bloody Christmas tree, and kiss him senseless.

Their first stop was a small, comfortably chaotic bookstore, where they picked up a cookbook for Eames' mother and an American mystery novel for his sister Katie. In the process, Eames also learnt that Arthur was inexplicably fond of French poetry; particularly the works of Charles Baudelaire and his contemporaries, and that detective novels bored him out of his mind.

"You should use them to treat your insomnia," Eames suggested, "put a stack of Sherlock Holmes' mysteries on your bedside table and pick one up whenever you're having trouble falling asleep."

Arthur did not smile. "I tried that. Doesn't help."

"What does, then?" Eames asked, afraid that the answer might be _Nothing._

Arthur ran his fingers across a long row of book covers, and then briefly looked up, his gaze almost shy beneath dark lashes. "Having you in my bed, apparently."

Eames forgot to breathe for a moment, and finally let his breath escape with a somewhat strangled, startled sound. "I'm not sure that's a compliment, darling," he teased, once he had caught himself, his voice low and intimate. "Are you saying that I put you to sleep? Am I really that boring?"

Arthur's hand brushed against his, a brief, warm touch. "You make me feel safe in a way that nothing and nobody else does. I don't know how or why; but it's the difference between waking up screaming and then tossing and turning all night and getting a good night's sleep."

And Eames couldn't help himself, he just had to kiss Arthur there and then, suddenly and enthusiastically, knocking over a stack of books and making Arthur smile. "There's no need to eat me alive. We can just go around the corner and have lunch."

"Tease," Eames said and took Arthur's hand in his, and they left the bookstore that way, hand in hand.

* * *

After lunch they bravely decided to face the unspeakable horrors of an overcrowded department store, complete with Christmas carols blaring from the speakers and hundreds of exasperated shoppers in the last mad rush before the holidays. Advised by Eames, Arthur set out to get a shawl for Julia. He had just settled on a green silk shawl with a pattern of blue, ornamental flowers, when he was distracted by laughter and looked around to find Eames, wearing a Santa's hat and a fake beard and making faces at a little boy and girl, who were giggling madly.

Arthur watched him, somewhat incredulously, the shawl still clutched in his hand. "You're such a child, Eames."

"Bah," Eames said, "you just haven't got anything in the way of a sense of humor, do you. Watch out, kids – Arthur here is the Grinch's little brother. He would try and steal Christmas if it weren't for me forcing him to come out of his cave and actually _enjoy_ himself for a few days."

"Really?" The little girl asked, wide-eyed and curious.

And Eames noticed that the corners of Arthur's mouth were twitching. Just then, the mother of the two little runaways caught up with them, looking stressed out and relieved at the same time. She watched, looking amused, as Eames launched into a short version of the Grinch's exploits as a Christmas thief.

"Mummy!" The little boy called out happily, when he finally noticed her.

"You shouldn't run away, Peter," she said, but there was no scorn in her voice. Eames was still busy helping the little girl to pull a somewhat oversized pointy cap over her head.

"Thanks for entertaining them," the mother said to Arthur, and then adds: "You've got a really cute boyfriend there."

Because two men going Christmas shopping together just had to be a gay couple, right?

Eames looked up and gleefully noticed the faint blush on Arthur's cheeks. "Oh… well, I suppose you're right. Merry Christmas."

The woman grinned, then turned to pick up her children and usher them away. Their voices faded into the distance as she was arguing with the little girl about not buying a pointy cap.

"Since when do _you_ think I'm cute, Arthur?" Eames asked, his astonishment not entirely faked.

Arthur studied him for a moment, a faint smile grazing his lips, then he shrugged. "A long time, I suppose. Probably since before the Inception job. You do have your moments."

"You know, that's funny, pet," Eames said drily, "Since you always gave me the feeling that you hated me."

"Nonsense," Arthur huffed, "how long have you known me, Eames?"

"Three years? Three and a half?"

"And you know me well enough. Now tell me – would I ever let a man I hate slam me into a door without retaliation? Would I let him sleep beside me? You said yourself I trusted no one. No one but my sister, and Stella, and you. I trust Lucia, because she stood up for me when no one else did. I trust Stella, because she did not turn away when she realized that the man she loved would never be her partner. I trust you, because you were fool enough to throw yourself in front of me when I was being shot at."

Eames could not help himself; he stared at Arthur after hearing those words, open-mouthed and foolish. A declaration of trust was almost a declaration of love, when coming from Arthur. "And here I thought you had forgotten about that, darling," he finally muttered.

Arthur quirked a brow. "Hardly. So, can we end this discussion now? I _like_ you, Eames. And I'm willing to try this thing with you." He paused. "You do have one advantage over the last few likely candidates," he added.

"Oh? And what would that be?"

Arthur grinned impishly. "Why… you just happen to be male. And since everybody insistently tells me that I'm gay… well…" He let the sentence trail of.

Eames gave a choked laugh. "I don't know whether I want to kiss you or smack you."

"If it's all the same to you, I'd vastly prefer the first. Might be better for your health, too."

"Whatever you say, darling."

* * *

Four hours and a seemingly infinite number of shops later, they had chosen a present for every person of their acquaintance, who might actually deserve one, including Yusuf and Arthur's grandmother Maria.

When they got back to the hotel, Arthur flopped onto his bed exhaustedly, dropping overflowing shopping bags all around him. "I feel like I've spent all day being chased by vicious projections," he groaned, closing his eyes.

Eames laughed. "Your very own Christmas shopping nightmare, huh?" He put his own bags down next to the door and walked towards the bed, sitting down on its edge and reaching out a hand to card his fingers through Arthur's hair.

"Mhm." Arthur stretched languidly. Eames felt his mouth go dry, but decided that it would have been unfair to molest Arthur while he was half asleep. Damn his mother for trying raising him to be a gentleman…! But since thinking of his mother invariably reminded him of food (she was a marvelous cook) –

"So, how about dinner?"

"There's no way I'm going to go out again tonight," Arthur announced.

"You don't have to. This is why God created room service."

Arthur looked at him quizzically from half-closed eyes. "Did he? I don't remember them telling me that in Sunday school…"

"You went to Sunday school? Now that explains a lot." Eames grinned.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "I come from a very religious family, remember? The first book my parents gave me was a bible. A very nice one, to be sure, it had been in the family for a long time. I still have it somewhere… in Rome, I think."

"You're not serious. Did they want you to become a priest, too?"

"No, my mother wanted grandchildren. Not that she's going to get any," Arthur smiled grimly, "Lucia doesn't want children, and I won't have any. It's a form of revenge, I guess."

Eames didn't know what to reply to that, so he wisely decided to keep his mouth shut. Arthur's family was a touchy subject and he did not want to curb the tentative progress they were making.

"How about you go and take a shower, pet. Do you trust me to order for you?"

"Since your taste in food isn't half as atrocious as your taste in fashion… yes." Arthur rose and stretched.

"Why do you have to wrap every compliment into an insult?" Eames complained.

"Because I'm uptight and grumpy and you like me that way," Arthur replied with a sly wink, before turning to walk towards the bathroom.

"Really? I must be a masochist, then." Eames reached for the room service menu, smiling to himself.

* * *

They had Bœuf bourguignon for dinner, which Eames knew was a safe choice, because he had seen Arthur eat and enjoy it before; and Mousse au chocolat for dessert, and afterwards they enjoyed a glass of wine, watching an old Christmas movie.

Eames felt perfectly content with Arthur in his arms, leaning against him, a warm, comforting weight. When he drifted off to sleep, Eames carefully shifted to the side, but before he reached out to turn off the lights, he looked down at Arthur, an ineffable feeling of tenderness rising in his chest.

_We're getting somewhere_, he thought, _finally…_

He found the light switch, then pulled a blanket over both of them and snuggled close to Arthur. "Sweet dreams, darling," he whispered, before realizing that in Arthur's case _"No dreams" _would have been a more appropriate wish.

Sure enough, he was woken in the middle of the night by a strangled cry and by Arthur tossing and turning wildly. Eames put his arms around him, hugging and restraining him at the same time, because he did not appreciate to be punched or kicked. He held Arthur close, listening to his rapid heartbeat and uneven breathing, until both finally quieted down.

"Better?" He whispered.

"A little," Arthur's voice was rough.

"Do you want to tell me about it…?"

"… no. Just… stay close."

"I'm not going anywhere, darling," Eames promised, kissing his sleep-tussled hair.

"'Kay."

They were silent for a long while, and Eames was beginning to think that Arthur had gone back to sleep, when Arthur murmured: "You never told me about _your_ dreams. You said they had returned recently…?"

"They have," Eames replied. "But they're not nightmares. Just normal dreams. A little fuzzy and confused, and they rarely make much sense… normal dream rarely do. They don't bother me. And I have a working theory as to why they have returned."

"Oh?"

"It's something Dom told me once. He said that he had been working in our business for so long that he forgot what it was like to have a normal dream. One that wasn't drug-induced and constructed. Then he met Mal, and he began to remember. He began to dream again as he fell in love with her. I never asked him if he still dreams of her… I didn't have the heart."

"He never told me…" Arthur whispered, sounding upset.

"Well, it does explain some things. Maybe it's a psychological thing. Strong emotions trigger the return of our dreams. Might explain your nightmares, too."

"Yes, but… your dreams…?"

Eames smiled in the darkness. "I love you, Arthur," he said simply. "I would say that's a pretty strong feeling."

He heard Arthur draw a shaky breath. "Oh."

"You don't have to say anything, darling. Just go back to sleep."


	22. Home For Christmas

Eames was woken by a hand on his shoulder, warm and comfortable, and the faintest brush of soft lips on his front. "Time to get up," Arthur said as he drew back, his dark eyes still gazing down at Eames, who for a moment was too stunned to react.

"You… that's about the last thing I expected from you," he blurted out, sleepiness and surprise making him more honest than he'd intended to be.

"Well, I could have woken you with a bucket full of cold water to the face, but then I would have had to listen to your grumbling and complaints all morning," Arthur replied, his lips twitching in a suppressed smile.

Eames sat up and yawned. Pale grey rays of December light were drifting into the room. "You let me sleep in," he noted.

"It's eight a.m., so you have nothing to worry about. And it seemed only fair to let you sleep, since I woke you last night."

"Darling, why are you trying so damn hard to hide the fact that you wanted to do something nice for me? It's nothing to be ashamed of, and I know anyway, so you may stop pretending."

Arthur blushed faintly, but did not grace him with an answer. Instead, he turned away.

Eames chuckled. "You are the strangest creature, pet. You'd rather deal with scores of hostile projections or get involved in a shootout in the dark alleys of Naples than deal with your own feelings. They frighten you, don't they? Because they are the one thing you cannot control."

"Eames, I do _not_ appreciate you psychoanalyzing me before I've had my first cup of coffee," Arthur grumbled. "Don't make me cross."

"As you wish, darling." Eames leant over and slung an arm around Arthur's shoulders, drawing him closer.

"What are you doing?" Arthur asked suspiciously.

"I'm hugging you. The concept maybe unfamiliar to you, but I can assure you that it is completely safe." Since Arthur was still sitting on the edge of the bed, there was no way Eames could face him without getting up. Instead, he pulled Arthur up against his chest, resting his chin on the other man's shoulder. "There you go. It's not so bad, is it, pet?"

"Would you please stop calling me pet names and use my first name instead?"

"No. Your first name is boring. Besides, you don't use mine, either."

Arthur huffed depreciatively. "I'm not even sure I _know_ your first name. Nobody ever uses it."

"It's Daniel, and of course you knew that. But you're right; the only person who calls me that is my mother."

"Will you start calling me _Arthur_ if I call you _Daniel_?"

"No, but I might smack you, if you call me Daniel. You're not my mother. And thank God for that. Otherwise, this would be incest." He twisted and turned and placed a somewhat sloppy kiss on Arthur's cheek.

"Ugh." Arthur pulled back. "Alright, enough. Go clean up and brush your teeth."

"Was that supposed to be a hint?" Eames asked, slightly affronted. "You know, you're probably the most difficult and unsympathetic lover I've ever had."

Arthur sighed and rolled his eyes as he got up. "Go brush your teeth, and I might actually kiss you good morning," he said.

"Oh. Well in that case, I'm off to the bathroom." Eames replied, grinning. He heard Arthur mumble something that was probably far from complimentary, but paid no heed to it.

* * *

Arthur was neatly stacking freshly ironed shirts into his suitcase when Eames re-emerged from the bathroom.

"I see your laundry came back. I guess that means I won't see you in jeans again?" He commented.

"No, but you might get to see me in boots and mittens. According to the weather forecast, it's going to snow tomorrow."

"_Just_ boots and mittens, darling?" Eames teased as he approached.

"Get your mind out of the gutter."

"Sorry, too late." Eames looped his left arm around Arthur's waist.

"There's nothing sexy about boots and mittens," Arthur protested.

"Depends on who's wearing them," Eames told him in a low voice, locking gazes. Arthur shifted uneasily, his eyes wide, like a deer caught in the headlights. It lasted only for a fleeting moment, but in that moment, he was vulnerable. Only a moment… but it taught Eames much about Arthur's emotional state, much more than words could ever have revealed.

_He's still confused. He's trying to figure out how to deal with this… with me, with his own feelings, with his loss of control of the situation… and suddenly, our smug, composed Arthur is shy and insecure._

"Arthur," he said quietly, "there's nothing to be afraid of."

"I'm n-"

"Don't. I'm a forger, darling. Reading people is my specialty, since I need to know who they are before I can impersonate them. And I'm exceptionally good at reading you, so don't lie to me. It never worked well in the past and it certainly won't work now when I'm looking right into your eyes. You a_re_ afraid. You are positively terrified. I do think you're overreacting, but that doesn't mean that I don't understand the feeling. Because I'm afraid, too, you know. Right now, my greatest fear is that you'll turn around and run from me."

"No, you're wrong," Arthur replied, his voice barely above a whisper, "there is a lot to be afraid of. The benefit of not allowing yourself any close emotional relationships is that you have nothing to lose. And I'm smart enough to see that I'm a fool for allowing myself to hope. There are no happily-ever-after endings in real life. There's pain and misery and confusion and doubt. There's no simple way; just trial and error and compromise."

He smiled briefly, one of those gentle, wistful smiles that softened his features, and Eames was about to make a reply, when the smile suddenly turned a shade warmer and a glint of mischief appeared in his eyes.

"Besides," Arthur added, "you're not scary enough to run from. Sorry to disappoint you, but even my grandmother Maria is scarier than you."

"Oh?" Eames raised his brows, taking the bait and accepting the challenge. "Well, we'll see about that…"

Arthur looked dubious, but quickly lost that look when Eames pounced, sending both of them tumbling onto the bed. Arthur gave a surprised yelp, but his protests were cut off when Eames covered his mouth with a kiss.

They had made remarkable progress over the course of the last few days, even hours, Eames reflected, and yet every kiss still felt like the first one, a victory and a revelation. It showed him once again that he was irrevocably in love with Arthur; in love and in lust, for feeling Arthur's body move beneath his own, warm, tempting and responsive, made Eames realize how desperately he wanted him.

And maybe the feeling was mutual, because Arthur sure as hell wasn't fighting him. There was no _'No, I don't want this' _this time. (Not that Eames had fully believed him last time, mind you.)

Eames traced a finger down Arthur's neck and across his chest, undoing the buttons of his pale blue shirt as he hit them, and it was only at the very last one that Arthur pulled back and turned his head to the side, as if trying to hide his flushed cheeks.

"See…?" Eames whispered playfully, smiling down at him to reassure him. "I did manage to scare you after all. My, my, how squeamish you are, darling."

"Squeamish? No, I was just thinking of the time. We do have a train to catch, you know." Arthur propped himself up on his elbows.

"Hiding behind timetables, are we?" Eames teased. "That is so very like you, darling."

"Enough," Arthur huffed. "I owed you a kiss; you got it. I always pay my debts, Mr. Eames, unlike some other people I could name. But now we had better get up, or else we will miss that train."

"And would that be such a bad thing?" Eames asked in his best bedroom voice, a voice that was capable of sending involuntary shivers down the spine of the person such addressed.

Arthur hesitated, then gave a soft sigh, and Eames was unable to tell whether it was laced with regret or exasperation. "Come on. It was your idea that we go and see your family, so don't complain to me now."

"I hate it when you're right," Eames groaned.

"Then you ought to be prepared for a fair amount of misery," Arthur countered cheerfully, "since I am nearly always right."

* * *

They said their goodbyes to Dom and the two over-excited children, Ariadne and Yusuf already having left the night before. Saito, gracious and generous as always, offered them his driver, but they politely declined.

"My family maintains the comforting illusion that I am leading a more or less normal, if somewhat errant lifestyle," Eames said with a wink, "and I try my best not to rob them of that illusion. So a more mundane means of transportation will have to do."

"As you wish," Saito said. "Have a safe journey. And… merry Christmas."

Sakura smiled as she added her own words of farewell. There was no sign of the predicted snow yet when they stepped outside, just grey, cloudy skies and an icy wind that rendered even the briefest stay outside rather unpleasant.

They did not speak much during their trip to the station, each lost in his own thoughts.

"I'm starting to think that this is a bad idea," Arthur said uneasily as their train left Victoria station. He still looked tired, even after a good night's sleep, and his air and manner were now slightly nervous.

Eames laughed at him. He felt like laughing all day long, anyway, since to him, Christmas had come early that year. He fondly placed his left hand on top of Arthur's right and shook his head.

"Don't fret," he replied cheerily, "my family is a bit strange, but they aren't all that bad."

"Do they even know we're coming?" Arthur asked warily.

"Of course. I called Mom and Julia last night, and they will have informed everybody else by now. My mother said to tell you that she is looking forward to meeting you."

"I don't think this relationship has reached the meet-the-parents-stage yet," Arthur muttered, pointedly staring out of the window.

"Don't worry about it. As far as my mother, my father, Phil and Charlie are concerned, you are a friend."

Arthur turned to face him and raised his eyebrows in a look that spoke louder than words.

"Alright," Eames admitted somewhat sheepishly, "I have to admit that they probably won't have much guessing to do, but still… I think I can promise you that there will be no awkward questions asked. My parents and stepfather are kind-hearted, sensible people and my baby brother knows when to keep his mouth shut – we grew up together, after all. Julia will probably ask a few questions, but she will do it civilly and in private. And I think I have enough blackmail material on Katie to keep her quiet." He grinned. "My little sister is a menace."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Sounds… great. I'm lost already. Can you at least give me an overview of whom I'm going to meet?"

"Sure. You will meet my Mom. Her name is Eleanor and she will cuddle you and pamper you and stuff you with all sorts of wonderful food until you are unable to move, because that's what she does to everyone. You will also meet her second husband, Charlie, who is very easy to get along with. He doesn't talk much, but he's a really nice guy. Philip, my little brother, is still living with them, and this year, his girlfriend Hana will be there as well. She is Czech and studying medicine in London. Katie, my younger sister, is working as an interpreter, and she's constantly talking. She's an insufferable know-it-all, and she got married last year. Poor Adam. I don't know how he can bear to live with her. He'll be there, too, obviously. Then there's Julia, my older sister, who's the most sensible of the lot. Don't mention her age or anything remotely related to her love life, though, or she'll scratch out your eyes. She's a bit peculiar about that. Well, and finally, my Dad usually spends Christmas with us. He an Mom are best friends and he helped her a lot after her first husband left her alone with two small children. Though I'll admit that part of that was his fault. "

Arthur sent him a look laced with a feeling that was bordering on desperation. "You could have mentioned that you are going to introduce me to your _entire_ family, you know."

"Don't worry, they are perfectly safe. None of them is likely to attack you in your bed or in the shower."

"Huh. I guess I owe you one for that ill-fated first meeting with Stella, don't I?" Arthur mused.

"Yes, and now I'm collecting that debt."

* * *

Two women were waiting for them on the platform when they arrived in Maidstone. They were tall, slender and statuesque; the older one's black her tinted with grey. It was not difficult to see that they were mother and daughter.

Julia was wearing an impeccable anthracite colored business suit, her I-Phone clutched in one hand. She sent her brother and Arthur a curious look over the top of her silver rimmed glasses, but seemed quite content to leave the first part of the greetings to her mother.

"Daniel!" His mother's face broke into a smile as wide and sunny as a summer sky, rendering her aged face young and attractive once more. She embraced him, her lips brushing his cheeks in two brief kisses. The familiar, comforting smell of her flowery perfume enveloped him.

When she let go of him, his mother immediately turned towards Arthur, extending a hand and the same warm, welcoming smile.

"Mum, meet Arthur Lombardi." It was the name Arthur had given him, and Eames had the sneaking suspicion that this time, it was not one of his aliases, but actually his birth name. It was a sign of trust that filed him with a strange feeling of pride.

"Arthur, my mother, Eleanor Rivers. And the beautiful girl behind her is my eldest sister, Julia."

Julia snorted. "Flattery will get you nowhere, brother dear." She turned her green eyes on Arthur. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Arthur," she said with a somewhat ironic smile that was clearly aimed at her brother more than at Arthur.

Eames groaned. "Julia, would you try to go easy on him and my nerves? He has yet to face Katie, and that's one thing I'm _not_ looking forward to."

Both Julia and Eleanor laughed. "I will keep her on a short leash," his mother promised.

"Yeah, you've tried that for about twenty-five years now, Mum, so forgive me if I'm still concerned."

"Nonsense." Eleanor shook her head. "Don't listen to him," she told Arthur. "Katherine is a sweet little girl, she just has a bit of a sharp tongue."

"That's one way of putting it, I suppose," Julia muttered, "by the way, Eames, what _can_ I ask him? Since the question _'are you or are you not sleeping with my brother' _would be a rather inopportune opener for a conversation and I guess I'm not supposed to ask about work, either, I mean."

Eames squirmed, but Arthur actually looked amused.

"Julia!" Eleanor chided. "Don't call him that."

Julia rolled her eyes. "Fine – so _Daniel_, what are we supposed to talk about?"

"Don't laugh," Eames told Arthur sternly, "_your _sister Lucia actually asked me that. It seems that we are both gifted with nosy, tactless sisters."

Arthur's eyes widened. "Lucia asked you…?"

Eames nodded. "Yes, though I'll admit that it was after she asked me inside for coffee. It led to a rather interesting discussion of your character and moral values."

"Alright, I'm going to die from embarrassment now," Arthur announced. "I so hate my sister. Why did you have to go and see her?"

"Because you wouldn't talk to me, remember?" Eames countered.

"I'd say he's well prepared for meeting Katie," Julia said. "And as for conversation topics, I'll just stick to arts and entertainment. I hope you like modern art, nineteenth century literature and jazz, Arthur; otherwise we won't have much to talk about. But then of course, I could tell you all the embarrassing details of my brother's early life, if you'd prefer that…" She winked at him.

"Don't you dare," Eames said, "or I'll sneak into your bedroom and put spiders beneath your pillow."

"You won't find any, dear," Eleanor told him good-naturedly, "Katie and I cleaned the entire house yesterday, cellar to attic. I doubt there are any spiders left; they all ended up inside the vacuum cleaner."

"See?" Julia said, briefly sticking out her tongue at him. "So I can tell him all I want…"

"I'm actually looking forward to that," Arthur replied and they turned to face Eames with identical gleeful smiles.

"God, what have I done…?"


	23. Family Council

Eleanor drove them home in a sixteen year old white Mercedes that looked as if it had spent much of its life on North African dirt roads. Eames fondly remembered the car from his teenage days, but he, just as every other male member of the family and Julia insisted that the car should have long since been replaced by a more recent model. Eleanor just smiled and waved their concerns away. "I like this car," she said, "don't you, Katherine?" "Sure," Katie replied, "I think it's cool, Mum." And that usually ended the discussion.

They drove through town and down a winding road through the wintry countryside, turned onto a narrow lane and suddenly the house was before them, its reddish-brown bricks a little faded with age, its left side covered in dark green ivy.

A shaggy grey dog, the last surviving pup of Julia's beloved Irish wolfhound Amber that she had left in her mother's care when moving to London and that had died some five years ago, rose from the porch and padded towards them. Upon noticing Eames, the dog first gave a sharp bark, then sniffed and apparently recognized him. Arthur, on the other hand, received a low growl.

"Oh, hush Jago," Eleanor told it. "Down!"

Jago whined and obeyed, clearly dissatisfied. He seemed to be taking his duties as a guard dog seriously.

The front door opened and Eames' two younger siblings rushed outside, followed at a slower pace by his stepfather and Philip's pretty Czech girlfriend Hana. Katie had her arms about him before he could so much as call out a greeting.

"You came!"

"Sure," Eames said, trying to steady both of them, lest they end up in the mud covering most of the yard. "I always do."

"Yes, but still…" Katie beamed up at him. His younger sister was blond, freckled and petite. All in all, she looked very much like her father, as did Philip. Getting on tiptoes and peering over Eames' shoulder, she noticed Arthur and gave a squeal of delight.

_Oh dear…._

"You brought him!"

"I said I would," Eames replied defensively, but Katie wasn't listening anymore.

"Oh, but he's so cute! Isn't he cute, Mum?" She looked at Arthur as if she was seriously considering to subject him to an enthusiastic hug, too.

"Katie, introductions first," Julia reminded her, sounding amused.

"Oh. Yes! Well…" She let go of her brother, stepped around him and thrust out a hand at Arthur. "Katherine Gray. Don't call me Katherine, though, only Mum's allowed to do that. I'm Katie. The stout little man behind me is my father. I think he's actually named Charles, but we all call him Charlie. The other guy is my baby brother Phil – Philip – and the pretty little girl is his girlfriend Hana." She paused for a moment to catch her breath, and added: "You know, it's nice to finally meet you. I was beginning to doubt you even existed anywhere outside my brother's warped mind."

Arthur looked a bit startled, but managed a smile. "I'm pleased to meet you, too," he said wryly, "I've heard much about you."

"Only the bad things, I'd wager," Katie laughed. "My brother tends to exaggerate, though."

"It's alright, Katie. Arthur's got a terrible little sister, too," Eames said. "She's much prettier than you, though."

"Hey!" Katie smacked him. "Idiot. Come inside already, I'm freezing."

She dragged him with her, while Arthur calmly introduced himself to Charlie, Phil and Hana, who smilingly shook his hand and otherwise left him be.

* * *

After the obligatory tour of the house – with Katie in the lead, of course – they all settled down in the living room. Charlie brought coffee and tea, and Eleanor set a tray with at least twelve different kinds of homemade cookies before them.

"You've lost weight," she told her son critically, her eyes narrowing.

"I thought that was a good thing?" Eames asked, grinning.

"Nonsense!" His mother said, then moved her attentions to Arthur. "And you, young man, could use a few pounds, too. You do look half starved."

"That's all the range these days, Mum," Julia told her.

"Ignore her," Phil advised Arthur, "she tries to save the world by feeding it." Despite his mother's best efforts, Phil was a slim, lanky youth, who along with Charlie's shortness of stature had inherited his pleasant smile and easy-going manner.

"Where's Adam?" Eames asked his sister. "Did you divorce him already?"

"He's still at the office, something came up last minute," Katie replied, munching a biscuit. "He'll be here in time for dinner, though. He loves Mum's cooking."

"Who doesn't?" Eames smiled at his mother. "Is Dad coming over, too?"

"Probably, but you do know your father," Eleanor replied, shrugging, "he's like a cat; he comes and goes as he pleases."

"Yeah, sort of reminds me of someone," Katie said, poking her brother in the side. "Like father, like son, huh? So, where have you been, brother? Travelling the world? Chasing villains or becoming one? Spying, cheating, fighting, cutting unsavory deals, or whatever it is you do when you're not with us…?"

Katie had always been too smart and too curious for her own good, Eames thought, and he was well aware of several curious pairs of eyes watching him and waiting for his answer.

"But Katie – I've _always_ been a villain," he replied lightly, grinning at her.

"I can attest to that," his mother murmured, earning a round of good-natured chuckles.

"But where did you go?" Katie insisted, her eyes bright with curiosity. "I want some war stories, Eames. England is so dull in winter, and I didn't even get to go to that big conference in Manchester, since they decided last minute that they didn't need an interpreter, after all. And your life is bound to be more interesting than mine, since you have a real talent for attracting trouble."

"Finally!" Arthur said, with an exaggerated sigh, "and here I was thinking that I was the only one who had noticed that."

"Oh no," Julia assured him, "it's common knowledge."

"Will you stop making fun of me already?" Eames asked, faintly exasperated.

Arthur shrugged. "It's the truth."

"Huh. Well, I attracted _you_, darling, and that's about as troublesome as it gets, so I do suppose you're right," Eames told him, smiling beatifically. His family laughed.

"So you are troublesome, Arthur?" Katie asked, leaning in. "He looks very innocent, though."

"I can assure you, he's not. He's driving me mad."

Arthur rolled his eyes, mouthing something non-complimentary. The others laughed.

"That's how it's supposed to be, my boy" Charlie said, chuckling. "Just ask your mother. She's a real expert at that, too."

"Aww, Dad you'd get bored without that," Katie said, giving him a playful scuff.

"Probably," Charlie admitted.

"Hana and I are going to take Jago for a walk," Phil announced. "Is anyone coming along?" But he rather looked as if he hoped the answer would be 'no'. Eames smiled to himself, and caught an identical smile from Julia. Their little brother was very easy to read.

"You go ahead," Eleanor said, "I need to get dinner started. And you had better drive into town now, Charlie, if you want to pick up that bird from the butcher's."

"Almost forgot about that," Charlie replied sheepishly, getting up and stretching. "Shall I give you a ride, Katie? You said you needed to go to the post office earlier."

Katie shrugged. "Okay. But don't say or do anything interesting while I'm gone!" She warned her brother and sister.

"We wouldn't dream of it," Julia said, her face blank.

* * *

"Now how did you arrange _that_, Mum?" Eames asked his mother slightly exasperated when he joined her in the kitchen some fifteen minutes later. "Getting all four of them out of the house at once, so only you and Julia would be left to grill me about Arthur?"

"Oh, nonsense! I have no idea what you're talking about," Eleanor replied, stirring whatever it was that she was preparing. A heavenly smell wafted out of the pot, momentarily distracting Eames.

"What is that?"

"You'll see. Where is Arthur?"

"Upstairs. Calling his sister. It's his last chance before she gets on the plane, and I suppose he would rather not call her while she is staying with their parents." Arthur had requested some privacy for this particular conversation and Eames could fully understand that, but he had a sinking feeling that he was going to have to comfort him later.

"I see." Eleanor said, straightening up and turning around to face him. "And why is he not staying with his parents over Christmas…?"

Eames sighed. He had dreaded that question among many others, but better she asked him than Arthur…

"Not all parents are as tolerant of their children's choice in lifestyle as you and Dad are. Arthur's parents cast him out when he was seventeen and as far as I know, they've not spoken to him since. Listen, Mum, don't mention his family to him. It's a touchy subject. He'll talk about his sister or his grandmother, when he is in a good mood, but his parents are… well, it's an open wound."

Eleanor nodded her understanding. Then her eyes narrowed. "They cast him out? Who would do such a thing?!" It sounded truly enraged.

Eames smiled sadly. "Narrow-minded, intolerant people. It's their loss, because he is amazing. But they hurt him very deeply, and he's blaming himself. He's blaming himself for a lot of things he didn't do and for some he did do. All in all, Arthur is a very complicated and not a very cheerful person."

"But he makes you happy?"

"Among other things, yes. He also caused me a whole lot of grief and pain so far. But I think it's worth it." He shook his head wryly. "I have to believe it's worth it… I'm in too deep. There's not going to be an after-Arthur, so all I can do is hope that it will work out."

His mother reached up and patted his cheek. "It will. I believe in you, and if this is what you want, then you can make it work."

"Well, I hope Arthur agrees with you."

"Oh, I think he does," Julia said, leaning against the door frame. "Otherwise he wouldn't be here with you. You know, if there's anything you want to tell us about him, now would be the time."

"Like what?" Eames asked suspiciously.

"Like why does he carry a gun?"

"He does?" Eleanor asked, looking startled.

Julia nodded. "He's careful about it, but when you know what to look for, you see it."

Eames sighed. _Damn you, Arthur!_

"Would it help if I said that Arthur was a bit paranoid?"

"Nah, not really. Does he even have a permit to carry that gun?"

"I have no idea, I never asked. But he has very good aim, so he usually doesn't shoot random people, if that makes you feel safer."

"Eames," Julia said sternly, "what does Arthur do for a living?"

"You know very well that I'm not going to tell you that, so don't even bother. Sufficient to say, he has good reason to be a bit paranoid."

"Oh dear." His sister sighed. "He's one of the bad boys, right?"

"He's a lot of things. He's half Italian, Catholic, homosexual, but not really willing to admit that, he's an artist and a goddamn perfectionist, frightfully clever and a real pain in the ass sometimes, the most stubborn person I have ever met, my best friend, my worst nightmare, and my darling; and he'll be the death of me one of these days, but I really can't help it. Truthfully, I never thought we'd get this far, especially given the fact that Arthur _doesn't do _boyfriends, or even casual love affairs. But he does keep surprising me." He sighed, shaking his head. "I'm lost," he admitted.

"Sounds like it," his mother agreed with a faint smile. She stepped closer and put a hand on his shoulder, gently patting it. "You'll be fine, though. I was starting to worry a bit. Over thirty years old, and you had never really fallen in love. Oh, you fooled around a lot, as a boy and later, and don't you think I didn't know about that; but you never loved anybody." She smiled again. "Now I am not worried anymore. And I do not care who he is or where he comes from, as long as he makes you happy and you him. Because that is all that matters. Everything else is just unimportant backdrop. You'll see."

Eames raised his head to look at her face, her clear grey eyes gazing at him kindly and solemnly. Gratefulness for her acceptance flooded him. He had the sudden urge to hug her and gave in. "Thank you, Mum."


	24. Family Dinner

Eames experienced a brief moment of panic when he went upstairs to look for Arthur and found a dark, empty room. All his fears and doubts came rushing down on him, drowning him, and the only thought on his mind was _I should never have let him out of my sight._

But then he heard a sound and noticed that the door to the balcony had been left ajar. In three long strides he crossed the room, parted the billowing curtains – and to his great relief saw a familiar shape dimly outlined against the slightly lighter backdrop.

The skies had cleared and were now covered in a myriad of stars, diamond drops on midnight blue tapestry. The night was icy cold, but beautiful.

Arthur was clutching the balustrade as if he feared to fall off the balcony at any moment.

"It's not high enough," Eames said as he approached, "You'd survive the fall. It'd just be terribly painful."

"I suppose you are right," Arthur said, his voice even and quiet. Hiding behind his mask again, which was a sure sign that something was amiss.

"Why is it that these conversations with your sister always leave you with the urge to harm yourself?" Eames asked, stepping next to him.

Arthur shrugged. "My relationship with my family is messed up."

"No kidding. Your parents disown you, your grandmother is convinced that you will end up in hell but says she loves you anyway, your sister thinks you have turned into some kind of evil shadow of yourself and mourns the boy you were and your substitute grandfather wants you to be a murderer for him. I don't think it gets any more messed up than that."

"Do you think that I'm evil?" Arthur asked after a moment of silence.

"No," Eames put an arm around his shoulders, "I think you are lost. But I am here to help you find a way out of this mess. You won't be lost forever."

"I wish I knew where you find the strength to nourish your optimism," Arthur said wistfully. "It's unfair. You're not religious; and atheists don't get to have such blind faith."

"Don't confuse atheism with nihilism, darling. The fact that I don't believe in God doesn't mean that I don't believe in anything. I do. I believe in myself and I believe in you. And love is a pretty good incentive for hope. You should try it some time." He looked at Arthur sideways, gauging his reaction.

Arthur turned his gaze away, looking out into the dark garden and the barely visible countryside beyond it. "You keep throwing that l-word around."

"So?"

"It's a big word."

"Maybe I'm trying to convince you by repetition…?" Eames suggested.

"Keep trying. You are ahead of me here, Eames. I'm… mostly confused." It was a huge thing for Arthur to admit that, Eames thought.

"What do you want, darling?"

"Don't 'darling' me when we are having a serious conversation."

"Fine. What do you want, _Arthur_?"

Arthur shrugged. "Not to get killed. Not having to watch anybody die ever again. Normal dreams that aren't nightmares, or no dreams at all."

"Very healthy, commendable wishes. What else?"

"Sometimes I wish I could lead the life my parents wanted for me. A normal, boring life, with a house, a car, a child, a dog and a white picket fence. But I can't. So, what else…? I want my relationship with my sister to be as it was when Lucia and I were children. I want Mal to rise from the dead, laugh at me and tell me that I'm an idiot not to take you up on your offer of happily-ever-after immediately. I don't want to be afraid anymore. I want to be able to say yes, wholeheartedly and without hesitation."

Eames moved so he stood behind Arthur, and put both arms around him, hugging him from behind. He put his chin on Arthur's shoulder and murmured: "You will be. One day, you will be."

"Promise me…?"

"I promise to attach myself to you like hot glue and to shower you with affection, plague you with hugs and bombard you with the l-word until you cannot help but see the error of your ways."

Arthur laughed. "Deal. It seems to me that I'm getting the better end of that bargain, though."

"Not necessarily. Let's seal it with a kiss, before we go downstairs to feast on whatever my mother has conjured up for dinner."

He could feel Arthur's smile as their lips met, and that was the best part of the kiss.

* * *

As expected, dinner was splendid. Eleanor hat outmatched herself once again, and since Katie's husband had finally arrived, there was a loud, cheerful party of nine gathered around the large table. Between bites, everybody was laughing, talking, joking, shouting down to the other end of the table, telling and re-telling stories.

Eames watched Arthur bask in the positive atmosphere and gradually become less reserved. He struck up a conversation with Julia that quickly moved from classical music, to great performers, to places they had travelled and plans they had for the future.

"If I ever quit my job or retire," Julia said, "I want to have an apartment in some lovely Italian city – Rome, Milan, Venice – and a house in the English countryside. I want to marry one of those funny, goofy Italians – an impoverished artist, maybe – who's smaller than me, cooks amazing pasta and signs in the shower." She smiled.

"You should probably marry Arthur, then" Eames said, "he has an apartment in Rome, he's smaller than you, half Italian and an artist. He's neither impoverished nor goofy, though and he can't cook – do you sing in the shower, pet?"

"Regrettably, no," Arthur replied. "Though anybody who has ever heard me sing might not think it that regrettable after all. Lucia used to say I sound like a tortured cat."

"Well, then I'm afraid I cannot marry you. Sorry. So you're an artist, Arthur?" Julia asked.

Arthur shook his head. "He's exaggerating. It's just a hobby."

"That's a blatant lie," Eames said. "And false modesty really doesn't suit you. Your drawings are amazing."

Arthur pretended to ignore him, but Eames caught his lips curving into a brief, content smile. "My sister is the one who got all the artistic talent in our family."

"Really?" Katie asked curiously, leaning forward. "What does she do?"

"She's an actress."

"Oooh, do I know her?"

Arthur shook his head. "I doubt it. Unless you're a real movie enthusiast or a fan of Italian cinema, that is."

"Neither, I'm afraid; but what's her name?" Katie asked, reaching for her smartphone.

"Her screen name is Lucia Bianchi."

"Okay, just a minute… that her?" She showed Arthur the phone, the display showing a picture of an attractive dark haired woman. He nodded.

"Wow. She's beautiful. Actually, she looks a lot like you." Katie beamed at him.

Eames kicked her under the table. "Stop flirting with him, Katie. You're a married woman now."

Katie stuck out her tongue at him. "I can't help it, he's just too cute. And you don't mind, do you, darling?"

"Are you asking me?" Adam asked, feigning surprise. "Well, that's a first one."

"Awwww, poor baby," Katie leaned over to give him a quick peck on the cheek. "There. You know I love you best. But I also love teasing my brother, and now that I've finally found his weak spot, I'm going to mercilessly use it against him. It's payback time, Eames."

"Hey, I never pulled your pigtails."

"You did other things. You spiked my birthday cake when I was thirteen."

"You ate it anyway."

"That's my point. Everybody ate it."

"It really livened up the party," Eames replied, grinning.

"If I remember correctly, it ended with a number of passed out preteens in the living room and with a couple of the boys persuading Katie to do a striptease in the attic," Julia said, eyebrows raised at her brother. "Mom was so mad at you, she forbade you ever to attend one of Katie's birthday parties again."

"She lifted the ban when Katie turned eighteen."

"Yes, and if I remember correctly, there was that incident with Katie and the porn star at that particular party. I believe you had a hand in that, too."

"It's not that easy to find a gift for your little sister," Eames argued, still grinning.

"You invited a porn star to your sister's birthday party?" Arthur asked, shaking his head. "Why am I not surprised…?"

"He was a very nice chap, wasn't he Katie? And very good looking, too."

Katie blushed, giggling. "Oh yes. Among other things."

"Well, now I'll make sure you never get a hold of my birth certificate," Arthur said with conviction. "That should prevent any special birthday surprises."

"I've seen your passport, darling. Both of them, actually."

Arthur shrugged. "They're both fakes, so I'm not worried."

"Fair point. I know your best friend, though. I could just ask him."

"Yes, but Dom is _my_ best friend. He wouldn't even tell you my shoe size without asking permission first," Arthur said smugly.

_You're probably right about that_, Eames thought, remembering Dom's evasiveness when it came to talking about Arthur.

"There's still Christmas. And Easter."

"You _wouldn't._"

"Oh trust me, he would," Katie, who had watched their exchange in quiet fascination, said.

* * *

They talked until late into the night, eating Eleanor's marvelous cookies, drinking tea and red wine. At some point, Hana's head dropped onto Phil's shoulder, and he, too, leant back, closing his eyes. Jago had his hairy snout on Julia's knee and she was absentmindedly scratching him behind the ears, occasionally stifling a yawn. Even Katie began to show signs of tiredness. Eleanor and Charlie had excused themselves around twelve-thirty, arguing that at their age, sleep was a necessity, which had earned a round of good natured chuckles from their children.

"How about we call it a night, before we all end up sleeping in the living room?" Adam suggested.

"But…" Katie began to protest.

"You can barely keep your eyes open. Bedtime, Katie."

"Your husband has spoken. You better listen to him," Julia teased. "Let him keep the comforting illusion that he's in charge."

"Nobody who's married to Katie and in his right mind could maintain that illusion," Eames said.

"Too true, I'm afraid," Adam said, pulling his wife up and putting an arm around her waist. "Come on, Katie."

"Night everyone."

"Night, Katie. What about Phil?" Julia asked, nudging her brother with a foot. Philip stirred, groaning softly.

"He's passed out. We could just leave the two of them here."

"And listen to Phil complaining about his sore neck all day tomorrow? No thanks." Julia gently shook her brother awake. "Hey, Phil. Bedtime. Take Hana along."

Philip blinked groggily, then nodded and stretched before helping his girlfriend up.

Eames, Arthur and Julia followed them upstairs. "I'm surprised Katie didn't make one of the obvious comments when Mom apologized for the two of you having to share a bedroom earlier," Julia said.

"Maybe she was struck by a temporary bout of tact?" Eames suggested, a soft warning in his voice.

"Maybe. Don't worry; I'm not going to ask. There are some things I really do not need to know about my siblings' lives. We all know more about Phil's than we ever wanted to know, as it is."

"Oh?"

"Hana is very… uh… vocal," Julia said drily.

Eames snorted. "The kids are all grown up, huh?"

"Seems like it. Makes me feel old. I still remember them playing in the garden."

"You're not old, Julia," Eames said, kissing her cheek when they stopped at the door to her bedroom. "And you'll always be lovely."

"Ha. I had such faith in you, Eames. I always thought that while I'd eventually have to see the little ones settle down and get married, I'd at least never have to see you do the same. It gave me some satisfaction, you know, not being the only one. But," she added with a knowing look towards Arthur, "It seems I was wrong."

"Don't order the flowers yet," Arthur said.

"Not quite there yet, huh?" Julia asked, and he shook his head. "I see. But don't worry. If there's one thing I still have faith in, it's my brother's fabled stubbornness. Sleep well, you two. I'll see you in about eight to ten hours."

"Good night, Julia."

She slipped into her room and Eames opened to door of the adjoining bedroom for Arthur.

"I like her," Arthur said out of the blue, turning on the bedside lamp.

"I'm glad," Eames replied. "But I thought you would. You have similar tempers. You are both passionate, pessimistic, and slightly misanthropic workaholics."

Arthur laughed quietly. "That's a very flattering description. Thank you so much."

"You're welcome. Right side or left?"

"I don't care, as long as you don't try to steal my pillow."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"Right. I like the rest of your family, too, by the way." Arthur changed into his pajamas in unhurried, slightly tired motions, and Eames desperately tried to keep his mind focused on something other than the languid curve of his spine.

"They like you, too. Mom especially, I think."

"I wish I could return the favor," Arthur said wistfully, now folding his clothes and still with his back turned towards Eames.

"From what I know about your family, I think I'd pass that opportunity anyway."

Arthur remained silent for a moment, still busying himself with his clothes, before adding in a very quiet voice: "You have no idea how much I envy you right now."

Eames instantly regretted his offhanded comment. He stepped closer, apologizing. "I'm sorry darling."

Arthur shrugged. "Not your fault." There were tears hidden somewhere in his voice, in the desperate tightness of his posture. His face was blank, though, when he turned to look at Eames, the dark eyes unreadable. They looked at each other for a moment, neither sure how to express himself. Just before Arthur could turn away again, Eames drew his arms around him and pulled him close.

There was nothing more to be said.

He woke up a couple of hours later to find Arthur thrashing in the throes of one of his nightmares and spent the time until dawn holding him close, stroking his hair and listening for lapses in his breathing that might have been quiet sobs.


	25. Brandon

Arthur was very quiet the next morning. Eames figured that it was probably best to leave him be and opted for some equally quiet eggshell-walking paired with occasional anxious looks.

They got up around ten o'clock and would have headed towards a shower and their toothbrushes, but for the fact that the nearest bathroom was occupied. With five bedrooms, the house was quite large, but it only had three bathrooms to go with that. One was downstairs, one next to the master bedroom upstairs. There was only one on this floor, right next to their room, and judging from the familiar chatter, Eames' sisters were having one of their all-time favorite 'secret' bathroom committee meetings in there. It was a habit that went back to a time when they had all been living here together. What Julia and Katie had apparently never figured out, though, was that the wall between the bathroom and the adjoining guest bedroom was actually not all that thick.

Amid a lot of giggling (Katie) and the splashing of water, they seemed to be having an actual conversation, albeit a sharp-tongued gossipy one.

"I heard Hana again last night," Julia informed her sister matter-of-factly. "Seriously, somebody needs to tell that girl to keep her voice down."

"Maybe we should tell Phil to gag her. I could get him a gift certificate for a store in London that deals in bondage supplies for his birthday…?" Katie suggested, still giggling.

"I'll lend him my scarf, if it means getting a good night's sleep. My room is right across the hallway from theirs."

"Aww, poor Jules. And your other neighbors?"

"Eames and Arthur? Quiet as a grave, thank God."

"Maybe it's an age thing and they've already learned to behave themselves?" Katie suggested. "And anyway, I can't imagine Arthur being very noisy in any department. He seems so reserved."

"That, too. But I'm telling you, whatever they're doing on their private time; they're not sleeping with each other."

"Oh? And how do you know?"

"From the way they interact. There's a different kind of intimacy between people who've slept with each other. If you watch closely, you'll see it."

"You've given this some serious thought," Katie said, sounding impressed.

"Analyzing people is part of my job. It's just a habit."

"Huh. So here's a question for you, Mrs. Superior Knowledge – why is our brother not sleeping with a gorgeous guy when he's obviously head over heels?"

"I really have no idea. But it's killing him. Hand me the brush Katie, will you?"

Eames was very purposefully _not _looking at Arthur and wishing his nosy sisters to shut up. This was starting to get excruciatingly embarrassing. Especially, because Julia's remark was spot on.

"You should do something with your hair," Katie said in the next room. "It looks so dull the way you wear it. Your hair is very pretty, Jules, why not make more of it?"

"Because I can't be bothered to spend an hour fixing my hair every morning. I have a very demanding job."

"And nothing else. Seriously, you need a life. Preferably one with a nice guy in the picture."

"If this is an attempt to tell me that I'm turning into an old maiden with three younger siblings in happily-ever-after relationships, thanks for pointing it out, Katie," Julia snapped.

"Well, if it's bothering you, you should do something about it, instead of pouting and complaining. And you're never going to meet that nice guy on the job, so you need to get out more."

"Katie…"

"Okay, shutting up right now, before you murder me with that eyebrow pencil." After a very brief pause she added: "Do you really think Eames is that serious about Arthur?"

"I thought you were going to shut up? Anyway, yes, he is."

"Because he's the first one he's ever brought home?"

"Well, actually, that would have been Maddie Cox. You probably don't remember that, though. She was a classmate of his in elementary school. I think they must have been eight or nine. Maddie's mother had died of breast cancer the year before, and her father was working on an oil-rig. Maddie was supposed to spend Christmas with her grandmother, but she didn't want to go there, because the grandmother was a spiteful old hag. So our brother, little gentleman that he was, just brought Maddie along when he came home from school."

Katie laughed. "Oh, I bet Mom was really happy about that."

"She couldn't very well send Maddie back, could she? So she called the grandmother and Maddie actually got to spend Christmas with us."

"That's so sweet. Whatever happened to Maddie?"

"She and her father moved away a couple of years later. I believe she attended a boarding school somewhere up north, and the last I had heard, she had gone into law enforcement. I don't know what became of her after that."

"So from Maddie Cox to Arthur Lombardi, huh? That's quite a long way to go. I bet you _Arthur's_ background a bit more exciting than middle-class English country girl – or boy – and he's definitely not in law enforcement. Quite the opposite, I suppose, since our brother had to meet him somewhere and knowing Eames… well."

"Just don't ask him, Katie. I have a feeling that would not go down well with either of them."

"Oh, I know. Are you about ready? I need coffee."

Apparently, Julia was, because a minute later, Eames could hear their voices in the hallway. He took a deep breath and risked a glance in general direction of Arthur. Arthur looked back, perfectly composed and calm, but there was a glint in his eyes.

"It's not funny," Eames pouted.

"No, you're right," Arthur said, the corners of his mouth twitching, "it's not funny. It's hilarious." And he began laughing out loud.

"I hate you so much sometimes," Eames grumbled, watching him laugh, entranced by the sight.

"You should have seen your face when they were discussing us."

"I'm glad I didn't", Eames replied, wincing at the thought. The embarrassment was still too fresh; it hadn't worn off. If there was one thing he was glad about, though, it was that Arthur hadn't taken this the wrong way. If anything, his reaction was surprisingly positive.

He watched Arthur pick up his towel, his face still softened with laughter. It looked good on him. Real good. It somehow made him look younger, healthier, and happier. Once again, like so many times before, he heard Lucia's words in his head: _Timothy wasn't the only one who died that day; he took the grave, gentle, innocent boy I knew and loved with him. When I met Arthur again, he was an entirely different person. Sufficient to say that I liked his old self better…_

_Oh Arthur…! I wish you could be that boy again…_

He looked up again, to find Arthur's eyes fixed on his face, dark and inquisitive. "What?"

Eames shook his head. "Nothing. Just thinking… if this is what it takes to make you laugh, I'll have to let my sisters make a fool of me more often. Katie will gloat."

"I'm not laughing at you," Arthur said a little too quickly. Eames could taste the anxiety in his voice.

"… no?"

"Okay, maybe I am," Arthur admitted, holding his gaze. "But not… not in a bad way."

It was touching to see him struggle with words. If there was something Arthur wasn't good at, it was verbally expressing his feelings.

"Darling." He stepped forward, reaching out for Arthur and drawing him close. Arthur allowed it, seeming almost relieved to be spared the need to further explain himself. "I know," Eames murmured, their faces hovering inches apart, too close to really see each other, but close enough to feel the other's breath on their skin. "I know how hard this is for you. To be here, to trust… to let the mask slip, if only just a little bit. And I'm glad that you've found something to laugh about in this mess. Really, I am."

Arthur made no reply, but moved in closer, his lips finding Eames'.

_I could get used to that, _Eames mused.

* * *

"Presents!" Katie squealed, pushing Adam out of the way as she rushed towards the festively decorated table, where Charlie and Eleanor were busy trying to make enough room for both breakfast and an astonishing number of brightly wrapped boxes and parcels.

"Hands off! I'm not done yet." Her mother warned, gently slapping her away.

"Awwww…"

"Here," Julia said, adding a number of her own gifts, all wrapped in stylish, black and silver paper decorated with elaborate, trailing ribbons.

"Katie, make yourself useful and go wake up your brother," Eleanor said. "And Hana, too."

"Morning, Mum," Eames said, leaning in to kiss her cheek.

"Good morning, Daniel, Arthur." Eleanor beamed at them. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yes, thank you," Arthur said automatically.

Eleanor shot him an inquisitive gaze. "Oh? Because you don't look like it."

Eames winced slightly. He had almost forgotten how blunt she could be if she chose to. Arthur blushed slightly. "It is of no importance," he muttered.

"Is there anything…" Eleanor began, but Julia cut her short. "Mum. He's all grown up. If he needs anything, I'm sure he'll tell you. If you want to smother someone, do it to your own children. We're used to it."

"See, I told you," Eames said to Arthur. "She has this tendency to mother anyone and anything in close proximity."

"Yes, Daniel, because that is what parents are supposed to do," Eleanor said with a smile. "It becomes so natural that you do it even when you're unaware of it. You'll see. If you ever have children of your own, you'll do the same thing to them."

"Oh, I can see that," Julia snorted. "Dear me, those poor kids! Him as a father, you as a grandmother and Katie as an aunt? Ouch. It would take a very tough kid to survive that."

"I'm to be an aunt?" Katie said, re-entering the room. "That's great! Who's pregnant?"

"No one. Unless there's something Hana hasn't told me yet," Eleanor replied.

"What about me?" Hana asked sleepily, stepping into the room behind Katie.

"Apparently, you're pregnant," Eames informed her, grinning broadly.

"WHAT?" Hana stared at him, wide-eyed.

"Oh, relax. Last time I checked, Eames wasn't a gynecologist," Julia said.

"I impersonated one once. Does that count?"

"Do I want to know in what context?" His mother asked sternly.

"Probably not," Arthur muttered. "Though I'm sure he had a good reason."

"Good morning everyone. Got room for one more?" A jovial and all too familiar voice sounded from the door. Simultaneously, eight heads turned to look at the man who had just appeared before them. Out of the corner of his eye, Eames saw Arthur start.

"Morning, Dad."

"Brandon!" Eleanor called out, rushing across the room to greet him. The newcomer laughed and swept her up in a bear hug. Eleanor kissed his cheeks. He kissed her full on the lips.

Eames watched Arthur's eyebrows rise and sighed. "Don't worry. He's her best friend."

"Okay," Arthur said slowly. "And your father?"

"And my father. I'm told we look very much alike."

"No kidding," Arthur said, looking from one to the other.

"Yeah, well it was a little bit embarrassing when I was a baby. Mum still being married to somebody else and all that."

By then, Brandon and Charlie had slapped each other's shoulders in a befittingly manly way, Katie, squealing, had attached herself to his arm, while he greeted a smiling Julia with a one-armed hug, looking over her head to his son.

"Bless my heart. The lost son returns at last." Brandon grinned at him.

Eames frowned. "Very funny, Dad. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm here every Christmas."

"Which means that we get to see you what, once a year? Come here."

Sighing, Eames obeyed. Having shaken off Katie, his father drew him into a hug. Brandon was a very tactile person. Yet another thing they had in common.

"So." Brandon said, looking at him as he held him at arm's length. "I hear there's someone I should meet?"

"Mum," Eames whined. "You just couldn't keep your mouth shut, could you?"

"I thought it best to prepare him," Eleanor replied, shrugging. "To take off the edge of his enthusiasm. I was afraid he might scare Arthur into running screaming from this house."

That earned her a round of chuckles.

"Not fair," Brandon complained. "I'm not that much of a scarecrow, am I?"

"You have your moments," Eleanor said, before turning to Arthur. "Arthur, meet Brandon Eames. In case you hadn't guessed that already." She smiled wistfully. "They are very much alike. But since you seem to like one, I'd say it's a safe bet that you will also like the other." She turned back towards Brandon. "Brandon, this is Arthur Lombardi. Be nice. He's the first person to ever come close to your son's heart, and I have plans for them. Plans that involve getting Daniel settled down somewhere not too far away from us, in a nice house, with a job and a life that do not put him in danger. So… behave."

"Mum!" Eames felt close to tears. No one can embarrass you in front of others quite like a parent can. He turned to Arthur. "You know what? You were right. This was a bad idea."

Arthur gave a gentle smile in return. "I survived you," he pointed out. "After that, I think I'm prepared for just about anything."

"Well said," Brandon slapped him on the shoulder and Eames saw Arthur's defense reflexes flare, saw him turn to counter an attack – and stop in mid-movement. "Sorry."

"You weren't going to hit me, kid, were you?" Brandon asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Um… no?"

"Good. It's nice to meet you, by the way."


	26. The Gift

Breakfast was a noisy, cheerful affair that morning, especially since it was accompanied by the giving and opening of various gifts. Most of them were the sort of normal, pleasant things family members anywhere in the world might give each other.

"Well," Eleanor said with good-natured irony, after thumbing through the third book of recipes she had been given, "aren't you creative this year?"

"Just add them to the library," Charlie advised. "We all know you'll find some use for them, sooner or later."

They were distracted by Philip turning bright red after opening Katie's gift. Hana looked over his shoulder and started to giggle hysterically.

"Oh dear," Julia said, eyeing her sister warily, "what did you do now?"

"Nothing altogether evil," Katie replied, grinning.

"I seriously doubt that."

"I don't see a problem with this gift," Brandon said, leaning in. "I certainly wouldn't wear it myself, but then, I'm not your age anymore, Philip…"

"What did she…?" Eames began, but stopped when Hana held up a good handful of underwear in various daring colors and shapes. He couldn't help but grin. "Nice. I particularly like the turquoise sparkly one. That should go well with your complexion."

Phil, still spluttering with embarrassment, threw the crunched wrapping at him.

Eames turned to his sister. "Should I be afraid to open mine?"

"Is there anything worse than a golden G-string? I didn't even think they made them for men," Phil asked.

"How do you know Katie shopped in the men's department?" Julia asked, grinning.

"So, is it underwear for me, too?" Eames asked. "I can live with that. Arthur assures me that my taste in fashion is a crime against humanity anyway, so I don't think it could get much worse…"

"I'm starting to really approve of you," Julia said to Arthur.

"I trust you to buy your own underwear," Katie told Eames. "So… no, it's not that. But I think…" her gaze darted towards Arthur significantly, "I think you'll find a use for it. Sooner or later."

"Now I'm curious," Brandon said.

"Yes, Dad, and that's precisely why I'm going to open this in private," Eames replied, putting the wrapped gift away. "What did she give you, by the way?" He asked his brother-in-law.

Adam grinned. "You don't want to know."

"Oh?"

"Seriously, what did you expect of her after you invited a porn star to her eighteenth birthday?"

"Fair point," Eames conceded.

"I think you need a dose of fresh air to cool down a bit," Eleanor said, shaking her head. "All of you. Time for a nice little Christmas walk."

"Trying to get us out of your hair, Mum?" Eames teased.

"Out!" She made a shooing gesture with her hands.

* * *

Not counting Jago, they were seven when they set out for their walk, Julia and Charlie having remained inside to help clear away the remnants of breakfast and wrapping paper.

Katie and Phil were up ahead, bickering about the present she had given him, and occasionally throwing a stick or a snowball for the excitedly barking dog. Brandon and Adam followed them at a somewhat slower pace; having struck up a conversation about work that sounded as if it would bore anyone to death but themselves. Eames and Arthur brought up the rear, together with Hana, who seemed thoughtful and a bit lost.

"Don't worry," Eames told both of them, "you'll get used to it eventually."

"My family is very different," Hana remarked. "Much more… quiet? I only have one sister, and she is younger than me."

"Is it the first time you spend Christmas without them?" Eames asked her.

She nodded. "But Christmas is not as important for us. My father is Jewish and my mother… well, she doesn't care much for holidays and big parties. We usually just have a nice dinner and maybe watch a movie together. No tree, or stuff like that. How about you?" She looked at Arthur.

"I never spend Christmas with my family," he replied curtly.

"Oh? Why not?"

Hana hadn't been there for Eames' _'please don't ask him'-talk_, and apparently, she couldn't take a hint, either. Eames winced slightly, but at the same time, he was morbidly curious to see how Arthur would dodge this one.

He didn't.

"My family does not agree with my choice in lifestyle," Arthur said. "The thought of a gay son embarrasses my parents. They do not want to see me, and I don't particularly want to see them, either." His tone of voice was a bit cool, but not unfriendly. Apparently, he didn't fault Hana for her curiosity.

She looked startled and apologetic. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "This must be… awkward."

"Well… not as awkward as watching your boyfriend being presented with underwear by his sister in front of the whole family, I suppose," Arthur replied in a good-natured attempt at humor.

Hana laughed. "The look on his face was funny, though."

"Please do make him wear some of it," Eames said, grinning. "And take pictures!"

She shook her head, still laughing. "Oh no, I couldn't!"

Just then, they heard Phil calling for her from upfront. "See you," Hana said, sounding somewhat relieved, before jogging to meet him.

"That was evil," Arthur chided Eames.

"Where do you think Katie learnt her trade?"

Arthur shook his head. "I really don't envy your mother. How did she manage, all those years?"

"My mother is a surprisingly strong and enterprising woman," Eames said. "So far, she has overcome anything that was thrown at her. When her first husband left her alone with two small children, no job and no higher education to speak of, she managed. Brandon helped out where he could, at least financially, since he always felt responsible for her and for me, but he never really had an interest in actually raising a child. So the raising part fell to Mum, while she was struggling to earn her degree and get a job."

"I do admire her." Arthur said. They trudged on through the snow, but after a moment's pause he added: "Does she want you to have children?"

Eames frowned, not having expected that question and wondering what was behind it. "I think that right now, her hopes are on Katie and Adam when it comes to that. Why are you asking?"

Arthur shrugged, his face betraying nothing of his thoughts. "I suppose my mother would."

Eames was about to take heart and to bluntly ask whether or not Arthur himself wanted children – it was a question that would have to be answered, sooner or later – when an unfamiliar voice interrupted him.

"Daniel Eames. A word?"

The woman stood some twenty feet away next to a tall tree. She wore an unimpressive grey coat and pale blond hair spilled out from beneath a woolen cap of the same color. One gloved hand rested against the tree's dark bark, the other held a leather leash that led to the collar of a small white mutt that Jago in his excitement had apparently failed to register.  
She looked, for all extends and purposes, like an ordinary neighbor out for a stroll with her dog.

She wasn't, though.

Eames tensed. "Yes?"

The woman stepped closer. "Alexandra Carrick. I'm sure you remember me. We've met before."

"Twice. And here I thought you had gotten the message the last time."

"I'm nothing if not persistent." She smiled. "And this is…?" She asked, waving a hand towards Arthur.

"I believe I asked you to leave my family out of this," Eames replied tersely.

"Ah, so he's family. Very well then." She nodded. "I won't ask further. It is of no importance."

The small white dog sniffed at Eames' boots.

"Cute. He's new," Eames remarked. "Yours?"

She shook her head. "I borrowed him from a colleague. It looks more natural to be out in the woods at this time of the year when you're walking your dog."

"No doubt. So?"

"So, have you thought about my offer? You've had some time to consider it since we last met."

"And the answer stays the same, for the time being. I'm not so easily bought. I like my freedom."

"Freedom is one thing, but having the security to enjoy it is another."

"Are you threatening me?" Eames asked, raising his brows.

"Why would I, when there are others who would do it for me? No, Mr. Eames, I am not threatening you. Nor is my employer. We have a vested interest in your continued health and safety, since we want to contract your services. That wish remains the same. I'm sure there is plenty of dirt to dig up if one goes looking for it, but that's not what we're after. We are interested in gaining your support and loyalty as a team member. Threatening you would be counterproductive."

"I'm glad we're on the same page in this. But I already declined twice. Why keep asking?"

Alexandra Carrick – if that was her real name, which Eames highly doubted – smiled briefly. "Hope springs eternal. You would be a valuable asset. And I have a reputation to uphold, I am not known to give up that easily."

"Well, I wish you good luck on your other projects, then, because this one is going nowhere."

She sighed, spreading her hands. She had let go of the leash and the little white dog was now sniffing around freely in the mushy snow. "What do you want me to say? We both know that my employer can offer you neither the freedom, nor the rewards you get as a free agent. What we can offer is a measure of security and stability… and I will admit that that probably doesn't sound particularly sexy compared to the great big world and its temptations out there. But I keep hoping that one day, you may find yourself in need of assistance and that we may be able to provide it in return for your services."

"I've always been pretty well off on my own, thank you," Eames said.

"You might not always be on your own, though," she said, looking ahead to where the rest of the family had disappeared around a bend of the path. "And maybe then, we may be able to reach an agreement. Worrying about a loved one's security can be quite straining, after all. Think about it. Our offer of security might extend to someone other than just you if need be…"

Eames took great care not look anywhere near Arthur and to keep his face neutral when he replied: "I appreciate the sentiment, but so far, my loved ones are faring pretty well."

"Well, should you ever reconsider…" She reached into the pocket of her coat and took out a plain black and white business card, handing it to him. "This will help you find me. Once again, let me express my employer's sincerest hope that you'll join us one of these days. Merry Christmas, Mr. Eames." She nodded towards Arthur and picked up the end of the leash, drawing the little dog with her as she turned to leave.

Eames watched her warily until she disappeared between the trees. When he turned around, he found himself faced with Arthur's questioning glance.

"Do I know her employer?"

"Not personally, I think, but you should from the papers. Ms Carrick assures me that she is working for the British government."

Arthur's eyes widened slightly at that. Apparently, it was not what he had expected. "The government wants to contract your services? For what? I'd have rather thought they'd be persecuting you for illegal activities."

"I've never directly moved against them. In our job, it's safer to steer clear of governments where you can."

"Then what is their interest in you?"

"Truthfully, darling? I'm not sure. I have some ideas, but they all seem a little far-fetched. I'm guessing that they have some sort of agency that deals with people such as us, should they become a threat. Maybe that's what they want me for. An insider, to help them flush out their enemies and potential threats."

"But they aren't threatening you? They know your name, your family…"

Eames shrugged. "It's not that much of a secret; and Ms Carrick seems sincere about her offer. So far, she has been persistent, but polite. I assume they keep a watch on me, otherwise they wouldn't know where to find me, but that appears to be all they are doing right now. Have you never had a similar offer?"

"I spend too little time on American soil for that, I assume," Arthur said. "Besides – I work for the other side, so to speak."

"All the more reason."

"The Algerians had a contract out on me a few years back. It was a misunderstanding that could be cleared up when I offered them the people who really were behind the conspiracy against one of their ministers. Other than that, I try to avoid contact with governments. As you said, it's the safer choice."

"The world is a complicated place, isn't it?" Eames asked wryly, reaching out to take Arthur's hand. "Come, let's try to catch up to the others."

* * *

Dinnertime found the entire family gathered around the table once more, after they had spent the rest of the day playing various games, talking and enjoying each other's company. The mood was a little more subdued than at breakfast, since this would be their last meal together – both Brandon and Julia would be leaving that night. Katie and Adam had announced that they would leave in the morning, going back to their apartment in London to pack their suitcases for a weeklong vacation in Switzerland.

Eames had a mind to do the same, but he was at a loss of where to go. It all depended on Arthur, and as of yet, Arthur had made no mention of any further plans.

He had tried to introduce the topic by stating that it would be nice to go and see Cobb and the kids, but Arthur had only given a noncommittal answer and moved on to compliment Eleanor on her superb cooking.

Feeling slightly dissatisfied, Eames had put the matter at rest for the moment, vowing to ask Arthur about it once they were alone. As the dinner progressed, he had to resign himself to the fact that it would be quite some time before _that_ happened, though. His family was united in all its chaotic glory, and was demanding his full attention. Excusing himself to have a little chat with Arthur was out of the question.

Brandon noticed his discomfort and raised a questioning eyebrow. "What is it?" His voice was low enough for a semi-private conversation.

"Nothing," Eames dismissed it. "Or at the very least nothing you could help with."

His father smiled faintly. "It did sound a little too simple, the way Eleanor put it."

"I beg your pardon?"

Brandon nodded towards Arthur, who was now talking to Julia. "You and him. He's a peculiar young man."

"That's one way of putting it," Eames muttered.

"I'm a little surprised he agreed to come, from what you told me about him. It's all pretty recent, isn't it? I remember you ranting about him being in denial just a few months ago…"

"Well, he's not in denial anymore, at least," Eames replied wryly. "He's… adjusting. To me, to the idea of having a partner, to trusting another person in general. Judging from how long it took him to come to terms with the fact that he might return my interest in being a little more than friends, it might be quite a while before he grows comfortable with this. And I doubt that he'll ever be the son-in-law that Mum has in mind."

"Your mother wants you to be happy, and I doubt that she cares whether you live with a man, a woman or a zebra, as long as you're happy."

"Thank you so much for putting that image in my mind," Eames groaned.

"Point is, you worry too much. Look around you. They all like him and they accept him. And he seems quite at ease. So stop fussing and enjoy what you have before it's gone." Brandon raised his glass in a smiling salute. "To my only son. Be happy, Daniel."

* * *

It was late when they retired to bed. Brandon and Julia had left at the same time, both returning to their respective homes. They were seen off with hugs, kisses and promises.

"You need to call me more often," Julia had told her brother sternly.

"I promise."

"Don't you always?"

Afterwards, they had cleared away the dishes, and Eames and Arthur had joined Katie and Adam in a game of cards that quickly turned into a heated discussing, because both Katie and Eames cheated heavily.

"Remind me never to play poker with you," Arthur said to Eames on their way upstairs.

"As if you would, darling. Although – a game of strip poker would be quite nice."

Arthur snorted. "You should talk to Stella, before playing strip poker with me."

"What?" Eames asked, frowning. "Why?"

"Because she can tell you what happens. I always win."

"Oh? Care to test that theory?"

"If you wanted to see me naked, Eames, all you had to do was ask," Arthur said complacently. "Since you haven't done that so far, I assumed it was not a priority."

Eames stopped dead in his tracks, mouth agape. Arthur, ignoring his consternation, pushed past him and entered the bathroom.

_Did I just hear what I think I heard?_

Mind still reeling, he sat down on the bed. His hand brushed something solid. Katie's present, unopened and temporarily forgotten. Now, though, it offered the perfect distraction to occupy himself until Arthur returned to – hopefully – elaborate on his ambiguous statement.

He removed the paper and found a square, dark red gift box covered in velvety fabric. Torn between curiosity and a faint feeling of dread, Eames removed the lid and peered inside. It took him a moment to take in all the contents of the little box.

Then he began to laugh_._

* * *

_Cliffie! Yes, I know I'm evil. On the other hand, I've been told that a little anticipation spices up things...  
So, what do you think is in that gift box? I know of at least two things that will have to be in there, because they'll be needed in the next chapter (very ominous, I know^^), but I might add an item or two, if there are any interesting suggestions ;)_


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